


The Scourge of Auchtermuchty: A Tale from the Kingdom of Fife

by SmolSilverFox



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, canon made me sad so I wrote something even more sad, good and evil switched, i fell for the bad guy and now he's good so i can stan him in peace, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-01-30 14:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21429538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmolSilverFox/pseuds/SmolSilverFox
Summary: Prince Angus McFife had been the star of the kingdom ever since he was a child. But with his father fallen gravely ill and soon to perish, the young, eager prince turns out to be far from the benevolent ruler the country had expected. Spurred on by the powerful as manipulative Hammer of Glory, the prince turns into a warmonger and tyrant. The sorcerers at the noble academy of magic in Auchtermuchty fall victim to his cruelty soon enough. Left behind is a young necromancer by the name of Zargothrax, a student who'd only ever dreamed of becoming a great sorcerer, yet now seems bound to become the sole avenger of his people...
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just supposed to be a drabble, but well, here I am.

“Aren’t you coming to dinner?”  
“Huh?” The young man in dark blue robes needed a moment to spot the source of the voice. Sylphea was nearly hidden behind the shelves of jars and apparatuses, some of which emitted strange sounds or twitched uncomfortably in unknown rhythms. She knew better than to get close to them, without active wards or security devices on her person. Instead, she was clothed in light armour, likely coming from her fencing lessons in the courtyard.  
“Oh… no thanks. I have to finish this assignment first.” He wanted to go back to his experiment, but reconsidered. He got up and brushed his wild black hair out of his face while walking over to the door to meet Sylphea. She was a head shorter than him but looked a lot stronger, both physically and on the magical plains. Her pale red hair was braided back as if she was expecting a sword fight any time. They were the same age, and had been classmates ever since they had come to Auchtermuchty.  
“What do we get?”  
Sylphea shrugged her shoulders, making the armor clink lightly. “You’ll have to find out yourself. Seriously, Z, you don’t NEED to do this much, you already are her favourite student.” She mustered him for a moment before a sly smile crossed her face. She cast a quick rune in the air and lowered her voice as to not be overheard. “At ten in the northern pavilion. We want to watch the planetary alignment and Jelisia got us branberry mead from the fair in Dundee, you don’t want to miss that.”  
He didn’t need to think twice about that.  
“I’ll be there. I have a surprise I wanna show you and the others. I think you’ll like it.” He grinned. The glasses with multiple lenses and old-fashioned robes gave him the aura of a mad scientist, but his smile bore too much innocence to make him seem even slightly intimidating.  
“Awesome. Just don’t turn the table into a hog again please.” They both burst into laughter. “Though Lady Ungreth’s face was worth it. I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard your name used as a curse quite so often in a row.”  
“She shouldn’t have! She had no proof it was me!”, he huffed, but soon unable to stop the smile at breaking through. “You should ask my parents. I think they had a premonition when they picked it.”  
Sylphea took a step back and pretended to dramatically bow before him. “Ah yes the evil wizard Zargothrax, I shake before thee.” She burst into giggles. “Just make sure to tell me if you decide to change careers. I’ll be your loyal second in command.”  
“Doesn’t seem likely, but sure. Save me some dinner?”  
When she didn’t immediately answer, he pushed down the glasses and gave her the best puppy look he could muster. “Come on Sylph, you get a front row seat with all my pranks.”  
“Alright,” she sighed. She clapped his shoulder, hard enough to make him stagger. “Be there or be square, Z, I’m counting on you.” She turned, but hesitated and looked back. “Is it something fun?”  
Zargothrax didn’t answer, but the sparkle in his dark eyes told her what she wanted to know. A hug was out of the question, for the gods knew what kind of devilish potion was spilled on his robe right now, so instead she kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his thick, curly hair. Sylphea couldn’t help the swing in her gait as she left the lab and followed the wide arching ways of the university towards the grand hall. Whatever Z had in mind, it would be glorious. They didn’t call him Scourge of Auchtermuchty for nothing.  
She couldn’t wait for the evening.  
Zargothrax shut the door behind Sylphea, so no experiments - living or not - could accidentally escape and put his glasses back on before returning to his desk. He considered abandoning the project for now and rather eat dinner with his friends. He sometimes still couldn’t believe he’d found people who accepted him, even supported his sometimes misled shenanigans. They’d even given him a nickname to replace his clumpy and often negatively connotated birth name.  
He didn’t NEED to miss dinner for homework - not really. All he had to do was make a quick sketch of whatever came out of the kettle when it was done in a few minutes. But what he had been working on didn’t need a teacher’s prying eyes on and this was the only chance he had gotten to be alone in the lab. He wished he’d asked Sylphea to help him, he’d be done a lot quicker. She wasn’t an expert in transfiguration - her strength lay in the natural elements, in direct combat and protection spells. But she was the smartest in his year and would have been a blessing to have around. Oh well. He’d just hurry, the payoff would be worth it.  
The device he’d bribed Soriel into building for him was safely stored in a box in the last corner of the room, carefully warded to make it look so uninteresting people would look past it without further notice. It was safer than actual invisibility, that only drew the attention of the Magisters.  
He had to squeeze into the shelf quite a bit to even reach the box. Just as his fingers brushed the edge, a rumble went through the building, the deep roar of the earth itself, of glaciers breaking and mountains shifting.  
Z nearly hit his head on the shelf, cussed, but made it out of the cramped space with his prize without further injury. He shook dust off of his wild locks and looked around in a moment of detached panic. A few shelves seemed rattled, but nothing had been broken. An earthquake? No, the lab was built to withstand and counter such tremors for fear that whatever elements were stored here would cause an unwanted reaction.  
In fact, the entire city was warded to be independent of even the worst natural disasters.  
So what the hell had that been?  
He went back to the desk and set down the small box. His potion was done, but the color seemed off. It was purple, somewhere between a black eye and plums, with strangely green shimmers on the surface. He really had other worries than his homework right now, but the color worried him, he couldn’t just let it stand around.  
He was distracted once more by raised voice outside the corridor. Heated discussions were a daily occurrence but this didn’t seem like an academic disagreement or even a fight between students.  
A rough man’s voice roared orders, the sound of heavy footsteps and armour echoed between the stone walls.  
What is happening?  
A wave of instinctual fear washed over him, nearly paralysing him. He’d heard this before. Back in Cowdenbeath. During the war. The gait of soldiers was hard to mistake for anything else.  
Nobody would be foolish enough to attack Auchtermuchty, right? Not with so many mages… so many mages at dinner, or in their beds. The grand magisters in deep meditation, as they did during unique star constellations like tonight.  
His hands found his necklace, his mother’s parting gift, and activated the crystal inside. Before he could cast a single rune or spell, the world turned with a deafening growl, shaking every fiber of his being. He could barely latch onto the nearest edge before he hit his head on it, vaguely aware of the flasks and jars shattering around him.  
On second thought, the rumbling came with a delay, short bursts of sound and vibration, changing distance in a rhythmic pattern.   
Not an earthquake. Explosions.  
He got a hold of a shelf and pulled himself to his feet. He needed to get out. Find Sylphea and the others. Assess the situation, find a hiding spot, find the Magisters. Anything, really.   
He stumbled over broken glass and through liquids he didn’t want to inspect further, away from the door. He’d lost his glasses in the turmoil, but he didn’t have time to think about them right now. The lab was below the first floor, encased in earth, but there was a magical emergency exit that lead directly outside.  
The door behind him slammed open.  
“There’s one more!” The voice kicked his panic into overdrive and he bolted, accessing his magic as he rushed towards the portal. Almost there!  
His foot caught on something and the world turned. Instead of landing on his face, in the shattered glass and the gods knew what kind of dangerous potion was pooling on the floor now, his head was rudely snapped back when a hand dug into his hair. He screamed in pain, coming to a sudden halt. Some detached part of him was surprised the force of the impact hadn’t broke his neck. His captor dragged him backwards with inhuman force. Zargothrax cursed at them, fought back with all his power, but all he received was laughter and a blow to the stomach that made him nearly throw up the remains of his lunch.  
The ground shook again, the rumble much closer this time. Hands grabbed him, held him down. Someone kicked him in the ribs, making him double over as the air was forced from his lungs. Steel scraped along steel. The blade glimmered in the magical lights of the laboratory. They were going to kill him, weren’t they?  
The connection to the magical gateway snapped open. The distance made it risky, but it was his only chance.  
“Hey almighty wizard, what’s that supposed to be?” The soldier forced his head around, tearing out not a few strands of hair along with it.  
His potion was still in place, still unharmed, bubbling with that purple-green shine that had not supposed to have happened. Above it, the shelf had distributed its contents over the floor, except a vial filled with golden liquid that had shattered where it stood and now slowly, almost lazily, spread over the ancient wood.  
The young wizard Zargothrax, called Z by his friends, felt his hand close around his necklace and prayed his spells would work fast enough, before the golden liquid hit the potion under it and the room vanished in a flare of light and pure, red-hot agony.


	2. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the attack, the Knights are tasked with cleaning up. In the ruins however, there is someone wo may not be as dead as he seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Angst? Me? No way.

The setting sun caressed the city in golden light that failed to contain even a shred of warmth. The once proud town of Auchtermuchty, high seat of sorcerers far and wide, was tonight reduced to no more than a pile of rubble drenched in blood. The Knights of Crail who were not busy tending to their own injured and fallen were dragging bodies clad in robes from the ruins, lining them up for counting.  
Prince Angus McFife did not pay any mind to trivialities like this. After personally assuring the highest Magisters had been dealt with, he was getting ready to return to Dundee. His hammer leaned peacefully against his horse’s side, already cleaned of the blood it had spilled today.  
“I wonder,” he said. “Why my dear father was so afraid of them.”  
“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?” Ser Proletius shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t allow himself to look around for the Hootsman’s presence. Not that it would have helped. The Hootsman was no man of words. At this point, Proletius wasn’t sure if he was, either. “I’m not sure I can follow.”  
Angus turned around, his lively green armour without a single speck or scratch a strange contrast to the bleak violence of their surroundings. He grinned at Proletius as if he’d just cracked an excellent joke. His youthful appearance nigh canceled out the danger that radiated off of him and the quiet anger that had nested in his eyes a long time ago.  
“Why, my dear friend, would a king fear wizards so much? These pathetic figures right here” - he made a sweeping gesture meaning anyone and noone in the general vicinity - “were the deadliest wizards in the entire kingdom, the world, maybe. And yet they could not even parry a single swing of my hammer.”  
“Indeed they could not.” Proletius returned the smile, relaxing a little. “I feel honoured you would join us in this quest, my prince.”  
Angus waved it off. “I will ride back to Dundee now. Where’s the Hootsman?”  
“Right here.”  
Proletius flinched a little. He hated it when the Hootsman did that. A barbarian of his size should not be moving this quietly.  
Angus mounted his horse and slung the Hammer of Glory over his back.  
“I’ll leave the rest to you both. Meet me tomorrow at eight and report.” He rode off before either of them could answer.  
Proletius shook his head and sighed - when the prince was well out of sight and hearing range. “I suppose it’s time to clean up then.”  
The Hootsman grunted, but didn’t answer. They walked past the remains of the town’s gate towards the university buildings - or what was left of them. The city, according to their logs, was well-warded, ready to withstand any attack - any magical attack. The very much non-magical explosive matter dropped from overhead by the Crailian war eagles had blown the ancient walls clean through, toppled the gate and the main tower and buried a building marked as grand hall under tons of raw stone within the first minute.  
They spotted a few knights gathered around a figure in a dark green robe and approached them. The mage was neither old or young, with blond hair and a moustache spotted with blood from his undoubtedly broken nose. He had more bruises and scratches than intact fabric on his body and cowered between the knights like a frightened mouse.  
“What is the matter, Lieutenant?”  
The knights immediately straightened up when they heard their commander’s voice. Their leader, a short, stout man with impressive shoulders, saluted Proletius.  
“We found a survivor, Ser. What should we do with him?”  
Proletius considered for a moment. The wizards had been a thorn in his eye for decades. They were arrogant theoreticians who merely scowled upon the great Crailian Eagle Warriors. But the prince’s orders were to secure any alliances they could.  
“What’s your name?”, he asked the green-clad mage.  
“Azerion, my lord,” came the whispered answer. His voice shook so badly the words were barely intelligible.  
“I will make you an offer: Swear loyalty to the throne and your life will be spared. We will need a guide to count the fallen and rebuild this town for the glory of our kingdom.”  
The blond sorcerer hesitated, his eyes nearly blank with terror, before an expression of disgust crossed his bruised face. “We already served the throne. Auchtermuchty has been loyal to Dundee for centuries. Swear loyalty to Angus, though, after this betrayal? I’d rather die.”  
Proletius mustered him coolly. “Well, that is your decision then.” Swifter than an eagle’s claw, he drew his dagger and plunged it into the mage’s throat. The body twitched, his eyes widening, and then crumpled, blood soaking his robe.  
Proletius sheathed his blade, not caring about the bloodstains. There were so many on his armour, a few more didn’t matter. “Make this offer to any survivor. If they swear loyalty to the prince, let them live and round them up. If not, kill them. Back to work, lads, we don’t have all night.”  
The Knights saluted and immediately rushed back to their respective tasks. Proletius found the Hootsman looking at him with a strange expression. “What?”  
He didn’t immediately receive an answer. They continued their walk, past ruins and bodies, without laying much notice to details. Proletius refused to limp, despite his leg hurting like hell - he’d been hit by a nasty spell of unknown origin as he’d shielded the prince, but he didn’t have time to tend to the injury right now.   
Two knights carried the lifeless body of a short, young mage with red, braided hair. The mage was clad in armor no knight of Crail would wear, but the thought of a mage trying to battle like a knight was amusing anyway.  
“I remember a younger Proletius who would have spared that man’s life,“ the Hootsman said, his voice much softer and more cultivated than his rough appearance let on. „A knight who idolised the old king, and would have rather died than have blood on his hands that wasn’t strictly necessary. What happened?”  
Proletius sighed and wiped his hands on his coat, wiping off both metaphorical and real blood. “I became a realist, rather than a dreamer, old friend. If you let enemies live, they come back to do more harm. It’s simply reducing the overall damage.”  
The Hootsman smiled and stroked his beard approvingly. “I thought you’d never learn it.”  
“Ser Proletius!”  
They stopped in front of the ruin that had been the mages’ main gathering hall. The majority had been at dinner, which had made the roundup ridiculously easy. Angus was right - some mages had put up a fight, but most of them hadn’t even been able to fight back out of sheer panic. Pathetic.  
They turned to see a young knight jogging towards them. “Yes?”  
The knight stopped and saluted, with a nervous glance at the Hootsman. “We found the town’s archives, Ser. You might want to take a look.”  
The Hootsman raised an eyebrow, which made the knight in front of them shrink a few inches in raw fear. The Hootsman, though brilliant and a true ally, was not exactly known for his kindness. Proletius tapped his friend’s arm lightly, urging him to step down. He knew his knights, they wouldn’t bother him if it wasn’t important.  
“Lead the way, please.”  
They rounded the ruin of the main hall and followed what was left of a long, winding path between the buildings. Multicoloured mist rose from a pile of rubble to their right, accompanied by the occasional hiss or sound they couldn’t place at all. Proletius found himself instinctively holding his breath until they had passed.  
“What’s that?” They stopped dead in their tracks, if only because the Hootsman had decided to speak. The barbarian nodded towards a dark corner near the rubble, that, now that a Proletius looked closer, gave off a soft blue shine. Proletius ordered the knight to go first with a gesture, which he did, albeit hesitantly.  
He vanished behind the rubble for a moment, before jumping backwards with a nearly comical expression of shock. Proletius rushed in,ignoring his aching leg, ready to kill whatever faced them, but found no enemy to fight - only two dead bodies that were in terrible shape.  
„Oh, they’re… they’re dead,“ the knight said with a nervous laugh.  
Proletius sheathed his sword again without answering and surveyed the scene.  
Looking closer, the bodies had been a mage, judging from his blue robes, and a knight of Crail. Something must have exploded and catapulted them both out of the building before it had collapsed, for the knight‘s armour was torn clean off, including his clothes, skin, and parts of his flesh. The mage looked nearly untouched in comparison, had the left side of his head not been covered in blood. The knight even had his hand still buried in the mage‘s wild mane.  
Proletius shook his head. „Dear Gods….“  
The Hootsman grunted in agreement, but didn’t comment.  
„Get someone to clean this up,” Proletius ordered the knight. “Take someone who won’t gossip, I don’t want rumours going around. And be careful. The Gods know what these heathens have been doing in their laboratories...“  
„Of course, Ser, immediately.“  
„What about that archive you talked about?“  
„It’s right over there. It seems they documented all visitors and resident mages.“  
„Excellent. Go get this mess sorted, I’ll take care of the lists.“  
„Yes, Ser Proletius.“ The knight saluted and gladly hurried off, leaving them behind.  
„Ugly way to go,“ the Hootsman said with a glance at the bodies. „Wonder how they got here.“ He rolled the body of the mage over with his foot.  
The wizard had been in his early twenties, probably younger, with a round face and only faint stubble on his now pale cheeks. The left eye seemed entirely gone under a thick layer of dirt and blood. His tousled black hair followed the dead knight‘s hand when it hit the ground with a wet thud. Proletius wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
„Is there a problem, Hoots?“  
The barbarian was silent for a moment while his unreadable gaze scanned the body. The mage‘s blue robes were scorched, but surprisingly intact. Blue meant a student in one of the last years, or something like that. Proletius snorted. What a useless system. All that counted was skill, not age.  
In their struggle, the knight - he couldn’t even make out who it was anymore, poor bastard - must have taken the bulk of the blast, but not enough to spare the mage. Tough luck.  
„Nothing,“ the Hootsman said.  
„Then let’s look at the archive. If I don’t have this report ready tomorrow there will be hell to pay and my leg is killing me. Darned wizards.“  
They turned their backs on the lifeless bodies and went forth to the archives indicated by the knight. Out of sight of his men, Proletius allowed the Hootsman to lay an arm around his waist to help him along, cursing under his breath. He really hoped these archives were worth it.  
Prince Angus had been in a stellar mood thanks to today’s victory and they both knew they’d better make sure it stayed that way.  
For their own good.  
\----

When Zargothrax woke, he only knew two things: darkness and pain.  
It took him an insurmountable time to even realise he was awake and not dead, let alone gather his thoughts enough to assess the situation. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t remember what had happened after he’d been dragged backwards by what he could only assume were the attackers. His face sent bolts of pain into the rest of his body, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He was surprised he wasn’t screaming, or at least could not hear it right now. He remembered an explosion, and light. Had he gone deaf maybe?  
Something clattered in the distance, a sound that made his most basal instincts jump into overdrive. Armoured footsteps. No, he wasn’t deaf, and neither blind, for in his panic, he had opened his eyes. One of them, at least, the right one. The other one refused to work, and answered with another mind-numbing pulse of agony when he tried to use it.  
What he saw let him forget the pain in a wave of horror.  
There were bodies everywhere. Neatly lined up, row by row in the courtyard of what had once been Auchtermuchty‘s proud university. He recognised the painted windows of the lecture halls, now shattered, and the broken spire of the main building. And bodies, an endless line, all tattered, blood-stained robes of every color imaginable. The light blue of the healers, green of the scholars, his own dark blue, the transfiguration and transformation specialists, the red of the Magisters. Even the white of the first-year students, no more than lost teens, was now darkened by dust and blood, their life gone with it like a snowflake in August.  
Zargothrax was a necromancer. He’d spent more time with dead things than actual people for major parts of his studies. But now he could not bear to let his gaze linger. So many bodies...  
He hastily closed his eyes when he heard footsteps approaching and prayed his rapid, panicked heartbeat didn’t give him away. Every single beat seemed too much, easy to spot in the silent wasteland. He didn’t know how they’d missed him, how they’d mistaken him for dead, but it was his only chance. He needed to find the other survivors, and get out of here.  
The footsteps were slow and irregular, as if the person was limping, accompanied by a second pair of feet, nearly inaudible..  
“For someone with that meticulous lists, their handwriting is terrible,“ someone grumbled. He was answered by a vague grunt. With horror, it dawned upon Zargothrax that he knew the voice.  
Ser Proletius, the very commander of the Knights of Crail! He’d listened to him a million times, heard his speeches, studied the knights - once, a very long time ago, he’d wanted to be like him. But why in the world had the Knights of Crail attacked the town?  
His thoughts flew back to the rumours, the stories, the laughter. The great prince of Fife, publicly rejected by the Magisters. He didn’t have magical abilities, hammer or not, how were they supposed to teach him something? Angus had not been happy. But just how unhappy, maybe they hadn’t understood.  
„It’s about time we can get this over with, my men are exhausted. I just want to fly home and take a bath before I have to confront the prince tomorrow.“  
The other voice chuckled and Zargothrax had the uncomfortable feeling that it belonged to the Hootsman. He’d heard the stories, seen the retellings in magical, colourful pictures. The Hootsman was a predator, maybe the deadliest in the world. If he as much as twitched, he was as good as dead.  
His lungs felt like they’d burst any moment but unlike in a campfire story, they didn’t stop right next to him. Their steps and voices faded in the distance and after a moment, he allowed himself to let his breath flow out and in again, even though the forced shallowness was agonising.  
He needed to get out of here, and fast. The Knights of a rail were known for their efficiency. They’d clean up and then burn everything that was useless or dangerous. He’d need to find the others-  
He had to swallow to keep himself in check. He couldn’t allow himself any feelings right now. He couldn’t worry about his friends, or his teacher, or the animals...  
He needed to survive.  
His first measure was to numb the pain from his injured eye. He didn’t know how bad it was, or what it looked like, but there was no time to check. Biomedical spells had never been his specialty, not on living beings, but he managed to at least dial the pain down from a 15 to a 6. Then he just lay still and listened. No footsteps, no voices. It didn’t mean there could not be a guard on duty, but even with a wisp of magic, he could not make out any living presence.  
He suppressed any thought towards the implications of this information, though it made his very core shrink into an icy, shivering ball. Survive.  
Getting up was though nearly impossible. His body was stiff and nearly frozen solid in the autumn night. Every inch of it seemed covered in bruises and scratches that he just had no time to tend to.  
Despite all that, Zargothrax managed to heave himself in a crouching position. He wavered, dizziness taking the rest of his sight. It took an eternity for him to regain balance, every second of it growing his panic. The moment he could make out basic shapes again, he limped towards the nearest shadows as fast as he could. The walls of the main buildings were scorched and the beautiful facade riddled with holes.   
In the direction of the town‘s gate, he could see the warm glow of fires, the cheerful voices of the knights echoing in the cold night. His depth perception was clearly off, the blinding light of the faraway blaze wobbling precariously in his field of vision. Whatever had happened, his left eye was entirely useless right now.  
He stumbled against a wall when his legs suddenly gave out, barely catching himself before he would fall to his knees and likely not get up again. He stayed there, then, physically unable to continue while he shook in short, painful bursts. Was this grief? Rage? Or simply the physical pain and exhaustion? His stomach revolted, but in lack of having eaten dinner, didn’t find a way to relieve itself.  
How could they celebrate after what they’d done? How could they sleep, knowing they’d murdered so many defenceless citizens of their own kingdom?  
The wind picked up, howling between the broken stones like an aggressive werewolf and Zargothrax realized he was freezing. His robes hadn’t been made for staying outside in the first place, but now they were tattered, entire parts burned, some strips torn off deliberately by whoever had passed by his unmoving body.  
Gods, he just wanted to wake up in the dorms. He didn’t care if the others laughed at him for crying. Get a hug and a tea, and huddle in with his friends. Just wake from this nightmare.  
He wiped his eyes, which was immediately answered by pain that made him nearly pass out. He could barely stifle the pitiful whimper that wanted to escape his throat.   
He wrapped his arms around himself against the cold and walked on, keeping in the shadows of the buildings, listening even for the slightest sound. It was hard to tell in the mayhem, but wasn’t the laundry room somewhere here?  
He instinctively wanted to touch his necklace to draw a little of the stored power.  
It wasn’t there.  
He froze mid-step, tapping his chest in an increasingly frantic pattern, convinced it was merely misplaced under his robes.   
But no. It was gone. The necklace he’d worn every day, every minute, every second of his life for the past ten years was gone. The family heirloom, sign of their magical lineage, the most important artefact of their clan, the gift from his mother.   
The clasp was reinforced with magic, it couldn’t have just fallen off. Someone must have taken it.  
Taken.  
They. Had. Taken. His. Necklace.  
Rage was not sufficient to describe the emotion that roared within him.   
Sweeping his hand over the runes embedded in the stone walls, he had the ancient buildings lead him the way to the laundry rooms, where he cast a spell over the door not unlike the one that had protected his wooden chest from curious eyes. He’d clean up, get whatever he could find in the rubble, and then leave. For now.  
They’d pay for this.  
They would regret the day they had laid eyes upon Auchtermuchty.  
He’d make them pay every single life they’d taken back tenfold.  
And then he’d get his damn necklace back.  
The room was a mess, clothes both dirty and clean thrown about, but the basins had survived the explosions, the walls deep down in the earth distributing most of the force. The laundry had been in use before the attack began and the room was still warm. He spotted his figure in a mirror o the opposite wall, but averted his gaze before he could make out details. He limped over to the basin and to his surprise, there was still water in it, clean one at that.  
The next few minutes were excruciating at best, even with the help of his magic and sheer spite fueling him. Washing the blood off his face proved to be torture, only the threat of his untimely death in front of the door keeping him from screaming. Eventually though, he was more or less clean. He tended to the injuries he could see first. His left arm had been badly burned, probably by the blast that had knocked him out. He hadn’t even noticed the injury before, most likely due to the cold. He was no healer and while he could tend to his state well enough, he knew many of these wounds would leave permanent scarring. He was too angry to care. What did his looks matter now?  
When he climbed from the basin, he was shivering, either from the cold or out of anger. Maybe both. Now, he needed new clothes. Under a pile of dust - undoubtedly from the cracked ceiling - he found a pair of sturdy robes. Even in the dim magical light they shone with a deep exquisite red. A Magister's robes.  
Well, he was the only one left, he might as well get a little promotion.  
The sob came as unexpected as it was violent.  
Zargothrax faltered on the dusty floor, unable to brace himself for the shock wave of desperation assaulting him. The pain from his injured eye - the gods knew what was wrong with it - blended in with the ache in his chest and the gaping emptiness there. The last one, dear gods. They were all gone.  
Jelisia, Gideon, Sylphea, Soriel, even his teacher, even that prick Azerion, even Lady Moira and the rest of the council? All gone.  
He didn’t know how long he sat there, curled up in the rubble, sobbing helplessly into his bruised arms. The rage washed away as suddenly as it had come, replaced by helplessness and defeat. It didn’t matter. If they found him now, he’d join his friends sooner than expected. Maybe that was better. He wouldn’t be alone then. Gods, he just didn’t want to be alone again.  
But no. He couldn’t do that and soil their image. Sylphea would never have surrendered without a fight. She would have made their life hell, and then gone down with a firework of death curses worthy of history books. She was a master swordswoman, the best of the best, and an even greater mage. Gods, he hoped she’d killed at least a few of these bastards.  
Gideon had not been a fighter, but he knew some great charms. He’d have distracted them, hexed painful warts upon them, unleashed spectres and disease.  
Even Jelisia could have gotten a few mean hexes in, despite being a healer. She’d never been exactly rule-abiding.  
Zargothrax laughed at that, a little bit. Oh yes, they wouldn’t have surrendered without first raising hell.  
He wasn’t like them, not a fighter, not brave. He wasn’t like them, and he could not have stood with them even for a second. And yet, by whatever cruel fate, they’d died and he’d survived.  
He heaved himself up, the last shivers of grief running over him like the icy water on his skin. For the first time, he met his own face in the mirror. He didn’t flinch back from the sight, too tired for fear or horror by now.  
Most of the blood had come from a gash on his forehead and a long, jagged tear running from his temple over his nose. He might as well be one of the pirates of old with that kind of injury.  
His left eye was even more blood-shot and awfully red than he’d expected after such a breakdown, the pupil hidden under what seemed like a layer of milky glass. Even keeping it open was painful, but now that the blood was gone, he realised he wasn’t entirely blind. Some light spots remained in his vision, though the pain they caused made him wish differently. He’d need to find a skilled healer - Jelisia would have had this fixed within minutes - to take a look at this. The cuts he could heal, to a degree, but eyes were sensitive and tricky. He’d only make it worse.  
His hair was scorched and uneven, but that wasn’t a first time occurence. A flick of his wrist restored it to full curly glory and now he almost thought he recognised himself in the mirror. The smile he forced upon his face may though as well have belonged to a corpse.  
His hands shook when he donned first a warm tunic and pants and then the blood-red robes, fastening them with a belt that bore the majestic adornments of the highest sorcerers, as well as some loops and a bag that would come in handy to hold his possessions.  
Whatever those were.  
In one corner, he dug up sturdy boots and a slightly dusty, but intact woollen cape that would protect him from the cold and help him blend into the darkness. Lastly, he wrapped a clean white cloth around his eye as a makeshift bandage. That was it.  
He pulled up the cape‘s hood as he advanced to the door and listened. He let his magical light flicker out before he carefully opened the door. It didn’t make a sound and he slipped out into the night on unsteady legs.  
The walkways and corridors, the gardens and pavilions he had known for so many years were gone, reduced to no more than dust and stones, their ornaments broken, the beauty of centuries, destroyed.  
„What do you mean the list doesn’t match?!“  
The young wizard froze in his tracks. Proletius‘ voice boomed over the bleak stretch that had once been a town. They must have found the registers. He needed to leave before they decided to search for him.  
Steps in front of him. Zargothrax dashed into the nearest crevice and held his breath. He wanted to cast a hiding spell, but his energy was running out. Without the reserve his necklace had provided, he needed to save the last shards of his strength - if he was found, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.  
„Proletius sounds pissed,” one of them said.  
“Rightly so I guess. I heard he got injured protecting the prince.”  
There were two of them, Knights of Crail still in their worn, dirty armor, minus the helmets. Their swords were sheathed, and neither of them looked around as they walked. „“Everybody is bragging how easy this was,” the shorter one complained. “But have you seen what that red-headed beast did to Korveus and Obras? We could barely recognize them afterwards. And the other kid nearly spooked the shit out of me with whatever that ghost thing was.“  
The other knight laughed. „Pity they wouldn’t surrender. I think even the commander was impressed. They would have made decent allies.“  
„A woman in our ranks? You must be joking.“  
„Don’t say that. It wouldn’t be the first time. Have you never heard of Commander Morag the great? She was the fiercest knight in all of Crail.“  
„Pfft, a fairytale. Come, let’s finish our round and head back to the fire, before my balls freeze off. I just hope we can burn this godsforsaken place to the ground and never come back.“  
Zargothrax smiled, feeling fresh tears burn in his eyes. He couldn’t know this had been Sylphea. But it sounded so much like her. He wished he’d gone with her. He should have gone with her and fought, instead of staying with his dumb experiment that didn’t matter and now she was gone and-  
He took a deep breath.  
Survive.  
Avenge them.  
The knights gone, he hurried to the next shelter. The main entrance would be blocked or guarded but that didn’t mean anything. Even aside of the dozens of visible doors, there were more hidden paths in the wide premises of the university than those barbarians could ever dream of.  
Looking back, Zargothrax didn’t remember how he left Auchtermuchty behind. He followed secret passages, untouched by the violence, avoided a few patrols that probably wouldn’t have noticed a rhino tapdancing in front of them, and eventually reached the northern pavilion, long outside the city’s walls.  
They’d met here countless times, to hang out, scheme, play games and drink. He’d gotten his first kiss here (it hadn’t been a particularly good one, both of them too drunk to really care), his first drink (which only tasted good in the knowledge of just how illegal it was), the first time he had realised he’d found true friends.   
The pavilion was not on any map, not even part of the university anymore. It had been abandoned long ago and been nearly entirely swallowed by looming willows and creeping fern when Gideon stumbled upon it in their second year. They’d made it their home, their refuge, repaired the holes in the roof and guarded it with spells. No outsider would even find this place, unless they had serious magical firepower. And of those, none were left. Only him.  
The scent of cigarettes and smuggled rum from their last meeting enveloped him when he stepped under the beautiful ornaments of the roof. The sides were nearly covered by shadow ivy, creating a cave, warm and welcoming. There was a table and some chairs, all stolen from the workshop‘s junkyard and restored in a collective effort. There was a bottle of branberry mead on the table, unopened, and a note in Jelisia’s magical handwriting, a bold, lively pink. For a moment, he seriously considered just drowning his sorrows in the liquor, but the leaden weariness made even that seem like too much effort.  
Using his last magical energy, he hid the pathway he had come through. The bed they’d stored - for the times when one had to get away for a while - was not luxurious, but comfy. He curled up in the warm sheets, felt the soft fabric on his face and the scents of old, the ghosts of a life that would never be again. He did not feel the tears on his cheeks falling before darkness took him away and he knew no more.


	3. An unexpected misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the bravest warriors lose their courage when their survival is up to the random chance of a young prince's mood...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene was in big parts inspired by LadyTroll / uupiic (on tumblr) who shares this AU with me. Check out their story "The Fall", it's brilliant!

_The citadel of Dundee, royal palace_

The colourful lights dancing over the floor, created by the morning sun, failed to liven up the hall. He’d seen those ornaments a million times, but now they failed to soothe the turmoil within. Usually, the lights calmed him, like they had when a much younger him had been awarded the title “Grand Master” by the now dying king. He’d been terribly nervous, but focusing himself on the dancing lights on the marble floor had helped him get through the ceremony better than any previous training had.  
Now, he could only see the shadows, refusing to imagine something jumping out at him any second. The training of the Crailian force was thorough, but nobody had ever prepared him for a case when his own allies were not trustworthy.   
Or worse, his own king.  
Proletius straightened his back, fixing his eyes on the door hidden in the shadows. Prince Angus was in there, probably either celebrating or planning their next move. Next to him, the Hootsman adjusted his leather belt, looking no more bothered than usual, but even this small gesture betrayed the fact Ser Proletius himself was unwilling to face lest he crumble under its weight: They were both terrified.   
“So, my dearest friend”, the Hootsman began in a low murmur, sweeping his gaze over the empty room. “Who’s going to tell him?”  
“You do.” Proletius did his best to not betray his paralysing disturbance, focusing his eyes on the dancing lights on the floor once again.  
“Your lads were responsible for the most bodies though,” the Hootsman argued. “You tell him.”  
“Hoots I get it, I do.” Proletius couldn’t help the pain in his voice. “But you got brownie points as the mighty ally-“  
“You realise I can hear you, right?”  
The two men froze, sharing the same expression of horror, before slowly turning to the prince towering over them. Despite his slim build, the blaze in his eyes promised nothing but destruction should they make the slightest mistake. He’d entered the room behind their backs without making a sound, despite the full leather armor he hadn’t taken off since yesterday. The guards had said the prince had been in a stellar mood all night, but the face mustering them was branded by dark circles under his eyes and ruffled hair, sporting a gaze one could only describe as murderous.  
Ser Proletius prayed then, something he rarely did, prayed that no talkative, drunken fool had spread a rumor that had reached the prince.   
“What do you need to tell me?”, the prince asked, every word crisp like the swing of a blade.  
Proletius wanted to answer. He really did. He’d never been frightened of difficult meetings or battle. But Angus was different. Something about him was... wrong. Despite knowing the lad since his literal birth, Proletius had found himself frightened by the young prince, and what he was capable of.  
“The Knights of Crail finished counting the fallen,” the Hootsman took it upon himself to answer. If they survived this, Proletius owed him at least one crate of ale. More like a barrel.  
“And?” Angus took a step forward, eyes flashing in an unconcealed threat.  
The two men involuntarily threw a glance at the Hammer of Glory, leaning against a column only a few feet away. They’d seen the inhumane violence the prince had unleashed yesterday, and did not doubt he’d use it against his allies too.  
“We... that means Proletius and me, we found the registers of Auchtermuchty. There’s... lists. Of all magical practitioners.”  
Angus didn’t repeat his question, but the way he clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils was telling enough.  
“There’s one missing,” Proletius found his voice.  
“What do you MEAN there’s one missing?”  
“The list... has more names than bodies,” Proletius explained as factual as he could, aware he sounded like a less than intellectually gifted child. He was surprised his voice didn’t break by the end of the sentence. “We checked three times.”   
Only his quick reflexes saved him from an undignified slap to the face. “Then check AGAIN, you fool!”  
“Your majesty, there’s... really no other explanation than someone getting away. There was a mix-up with one of the regular inhabitants of the town-”, the Hootsman tried to help out.  
“Shut up!”, Angus snapped.  
That moment, Proletius realized that had the hammer been anywhere within direct reach, instead of just a few feet away, he and his friend would have died a less than heroic death, right here and now. Angus was fuming, nearly literally so in the cold air, and it took all of the knight’s willpower to not shrink under his prince’s fury.  
“Tear the city apart, turn over every lousy stone!”, Angus ordered. “How hard can it be?!”  
“I’m sure Ser Proletius has already put measures into place, has he not?”  
Princess Iona’s voice made Angus freeze, a bit of the murderous rage leaving his face. How and where she’d come from, there was no telling.   
Iona stepped out of the shadows, only the tinkle of the crystals adorning her dress audible. The ornaments glittered in the morning light, making it seem as though the princess was encapsulated in a veil of ice. She walked with her back straight, unmoved by anything but her own volition, the air of a woman who could destroy her enemies on a whim, without ever having to bother her husband. When she smiled at the men it was enough to make anyone swoon and trip over themselves to please her, and planned to the last, minuscule detail.  
“Indeed I have,” Proletius assured her hastily. “Search parties have already been dispatched. We’ll find them in no time and deal with them.”  
“No.” Angus turned to the window, back straight like the string of a bow, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Bring them to me. I want to see them before they die for this treachery.”  
That sounded like a positively horrible idea, yet neither of them were brave - or foolish - enough to object. Any wizard, dangerous or not, was a better match than an angry prince Angus. The warriors were out of the room before Iona had given them the signal, their footsteps disappearing down the corridor. When the heavy doors fell shut, the echo fell upon a deathly silent room.  
Angus was staring out of the window, kneading his hands, jaw clenched.  
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “How powerful this wizard must be, slipping away from the Knights of Crail AND my own soldiers. Fools, all of them!”  
Iona stepped up to her husband and laid her hand on his neck, gently stroking his hairline. He leaned into her palm with a sigh. Under his princess’ warm hand, the anger in his eyes slowly dissipated like clouds in the sun, the tension draining from his shoulders.  
“Do not worry yourself, my love,” Iona purred. She planted a kiss on his cheekbone, feeling his arm wrap around her waist, holding her tight but not painfully so. “The knights will find them.”  
Angus growled quietly, but leaned into his wife’s touch, his features softening.  
“It’s just one wizard,” Iona muttered, her warm breath washing over his skin. “Go and rest, beloved. You have more important things to see to.”

——-

_Auchtermuchty, Northern Pavilion_

To say Zargothrax was disoriented when he woke would have been a lie. He’d dreamt his frantic flight over and over, awakening barely more rested than he’d fallen asleep, limbs wrapped around the blanket in a desperate grasp for comfort. When he had returned to the waking world, he simply lay there for an insurmountable amount of time, unable to conjure strength nor will to raise himself. He didn’t even have the strength to cry anymore.   
Instead, he stared up at the ornaments on the ceiling, result of long hours Jelisia had spent lying on her back, on a hovering platform she and Soriel had designed, painting every inch with intricate designs of galaxies and magic.  
The light seeping through the protective walls of ivy told of early afternoon. No point in going anywhere now.  
Eventually though, Zargothrax willed himself to his feet, even if it was solely to relieve himself and his stiff back. His body hurt terribly, every single bruise and scratch yelling for his attention, but he had no energy, mental or magical, to tend to them.  
Jelisia’s gift was still there on the table, still marked with her bright, bubbly magic.   
He fell down heavily on a chair, fingers closing around the bottle. He absorbed the markings, trying to conserve as much of her essence as he could. Without his necklace to store energy, he just hoped his own being would be enough. As little as it was, he couldn’t let go. Not now.  
Where was he supposed to go? If they had the lists from the archives, they’d know who he was very soon. The archives didn’t record family relations, luckily, but he knew Cowdenbeath and its inhabitants well enough - if he returned home, the knights would be on his doorstep within hours. The thought bore a bitter irony. He’d wanted to escape from that place for so long, knowing he was unwanted by about everyone than his own family. Yet now he longed back to that sleepy village, to their cozy cottage near the forest, to his mother’s embrace and father‘s kind words. Home.  
But he couldn’t. It would be his death, and his family’s too. He could not bear that guilt.   
He poured himself a glass of the branberry mead, more than he’d usually drink, and downed it in one swig. The alcohol - clearly mixed with something a lot stronger than just mead - burned his throat, but also spread a comforting warmth in his stomach. It was the taste of his first kiss, and the second one, of Jelisia’s laughter, Gideon’s nervousness, of Sylphea’s cheerful taunts. Of the night in their first year, when they’d played spin the bottle, drunken, giggling, up for nearly anything. The next day they’d been lectured about punctuality and discipline, shuffling into class with a splitting headache, but without regrets.  
He did cry now, but without the raging force of the previous day. The tears let his injured eye respond with sharp stings, but they also washed away the paralysis. Relieved of the crushing feeling of failure, it only left the loneliness. But that was a feeling he was used to.   
This wasn’t how it was gonna end. Even if Auchtermuchty was no more, he still had some life in him. He wanted his necklace back. It was a family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter by the McKenzie clan for centuries.   
It was his and he would Get. It. Back.   
The knights of Crail he’d admired for so long were nothing more than a bunch of criminals. Scoundrels without honour, stealing from a dead man. He’d make them pay. He’d love to say “every single one of them”, but even in his intoxicated state he knew that was ludicrous. But one of them, he knew. Ser Proletius. He’d led this operation. He’d allowed his knights to act like they did.   
Proletius would pay for it. He’d suffer and die, just like the sorcerers had. And Zargothrax stand over his body and laugh.  
“Fucking bastard cunt,” Zargothrax muttered, peering down into his empty glass as if it was at fault for his miserable situation. “I’ll get ya. Proletius, and, and the Hootsman that bastard, and Angus. Fucking Angus McCunt, you should’ve- should have died as a wee one like they said ya almost did.” He poured the next glass, hands shaking, yet not spilling a single drop. That enchantment he was able to cast without having to bother saying it out loud.  
He downed the glass in one big gulp, not feeling the burning in his throat any longer. The alcohol had dulled the pain, and now that he had a plan he felt better. Stronger.   
He’d kill Proletius, the Hootsman, and Angus. He’d get revenge. And then, maybe then he could die in peace.  
He fell asleep at the table with a smile that lasted the entire night, filled with hope that could not last, and blissfully oblivious to the misery that awaited him the next day.


	4. Sorcha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax makes an unexpected friend.

_Five years prior, a road north of Cowdenbeath_

He didn’t LIKE leaving his home. He didn’t LIKE leaving behind just about anything he knew. But as he stepped out of the bounds of Cowdenbeath, he couldn’t help a sigh of relief. He could still hear the whispers behind his back, feel the glances, some scornful, some curious. Sure, magic wasn’t RARE in the Dundonian empire, but there was a reason sorcerers stayed amongst themselves. He’d lost the little reputation he had with those fireworks two years ago. Before, he’d been the kid that played pranks, but was regarded with annoyed amusement. After, he was the gifted one - and that was not a compliment. The way farmers said “gifted” it may as well have been a foul curse.  
For a while, he’d enjoyed his newfound power, especially against his bullies who did not dare put a finger on him again. But eventually it got a little lonely.  
He’d been overjoyed to find out he was going to Auchtermuchty. He knew he was privileged to do so, coming from a relatively wealthy family of academics.  
Hearing that they didn’t accept girls put a damper on his excitement though. He was no girl, by far not, but would the mages understand that?  
Zargothrax rifled through his bag for the box of fruit his mother had packed him for the way and slowed his gait. He still had a few days until enrollment started in Auchtermuchty, and while his parents would have preferred for him to simply take a horse or carriage, he enjoyed walking in nature, especially on a summer day like this. He bit into a piece of apple and let his gaze wander over the highlands. He loved being out here, alone with his thoughts and a few books. Soon he wouldn’t have to practise in secrecy anymore.  
Technically, he was aware that using transfiguration magic on living things was semi-illegal, moreso as he was not even accounted for as a practitioner. But hey, who would ever know? And he certainly had enough to learn with the books his dad had dug up in the old archives.  
Turning stones into other stones proved easy enough. Turning a rabbit into a frog did not end too well. In his panic, feeling terrible for playing with an innocent animal’s life, his magic had burst forth uncontrolled like it hadn’t done in years. The rabbit sprang back to life. Somehow. It didn’t… MOVE like a rabbit though. It looked at him with frightening, hollow eyes and then hopped away faster than he could catch it.  
From that moment on, he practised transfiguration on himself first and foremost. It payed off soon enough. No girls at university? Well fair enough, he wasn’t. The stubble wasn’t coming along the way he wanted it to but he could fix that later.  
A neighing in the distance let him look up, interrupting his pondering. On the hill to his right, bathed in sunlight, stood a unicorn. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the animal in both shock and admiration. The unicorns very rarely came down to these parts of the country. He’d heard there was a valley somewhere, hidden away from the world, that was reigned by these magnificent creatures, but everyone knew only the questlords of Inverness had access to it and guarded the secret with their lives.  
And it was well-known that they would not let a commoner touch one of their legendary steeds.  
The sun sparkled on the unicorn’s pure white coat. Its eyes seemed to muster him from head to toe, a deep, soft brown filled with kindness beyond human comprehension. Oh, they were deadly, their horns could and would spill blood on the battlefield without hesitation. But not here.  
“Hello my dear friend”, Zargothrax said softly. He looked down on his provisions. Well he wouldn’t exactly starve from sharing. He offered the unicorn an apple, not really believing it would care for his presence, let alone approach him. “Are you hungry? It’s not much but…”  
To his utter shock, the unicorn trotted down the hill and towards him. The unicorn, a beautiful mare judging by the spirals on her horn, towered over him, as magnificent as she was dangerous.  
Zargothrax was frozen in place, his hand outstretched, unwilling to even breathe lest he scare away the creature. The animal lowered its head, its warm breath flowing over his hand.  
Then it nipped his bag of food and ran off.  
“What the-” It took him a moment to put one and one together, staring blankly at his now empty hand. By the time his brain caught up, the unicorn was already out of sight.  
“You cursed-” He couldn’t even find the words to express himself, unwilling to ruin his rare encounter despite his frustration. Grumbling, he turned back to the road. Well. The faster he walked, the faster he’d be there and get a decent dinner. He still had some sandwiches left, so he wouldn’t exactly starve. Bless his mother who always packed enough for three people.  
Despite the rather disenchanting end to the meeting he couldn’t stop smiling while he walked on. Dreadful trickster. He should have known better.  
The sun made its arching way over the sky as he passed towns and villages. Sometimes, people passed him, and he took great pleasure in experimenting with the voice-altering spells he’d crafted with painstaking detail over the past weeks. Who’d take a great sorcerer seriously if he talked in a squeaky child’s voice after all?  
As the day came to an end, Zargothrax realized he may have misjudged his own speed and the territory. He’d assumed he could easily make it in a day or two, but the heavy summer rains the past weeks had torn up the marshes he had wanted to cross and left nothing but an impassable swamp.  
That would add at least a day to his travels, rather two, and made the unicorn stealing his provisions a bigger problem than expected.  
He wondered if he could try a drying spell, but while being sometimes bolder than warranted, Zargothrax was no fool. He’d seen people who had died in the swamps, their bodies saved from decay by the wet soil for decades. He did not feel for ending that way when his still unreliable magic ran out.  
Sighing, he turned and started walking along the dirt road circling the marsh, into the nearby forest. He’d need to find a shelter for the night soon. Nobody passed him while he walked and only when it had gotten too dark to see where he sat foot, he decided to stop and rest. With the help of a simple magical light - not exactly energy efficient but useful - he sought out a spot between the roots of a huge willow, padding it with a blanket and then wrapping himself in his cloak. The night wasn’t cold per se but he knew the tricky winds in these lands.  
His slumber was interrupted by the sound of crackling leather and sniffing. Fighting out of the drowsiness proved to be laborious and it took him minutes until his mind was ready to take in his surroundings, let alone cast a spell. The cool white light gleamed off the white coat of the unicorn that was currently busy raiding his bag for the last scraps of a meal.  
“HEY!” Tired and cranky and with the wonder of the previous day worn off, Zargothrax had no reservations about springing into action to defend whatever was left of his belongings. The unicorn did not seem overly impressed. He tried to push its head away but as the beast turned towards him he instinctively sprang back, already seeing his hand or even body impaled on the deadly horn.  
“Seriously?” He complained. There was nothing he could do, so he plopped down in a posture he hoped radiated enough frustration even a unicorn could understand. “I have quite a way to go you know. And unlike you, I can’t live off grass. Do the Questlords not feed you well enough? What are you even doing here all alone?”  
The unicorn looked at him, its eyes sparkling in the magical light. It stepped forward and sniffed him. Zargothrax was too baffled to do anything but freeze in position, worried he’d hurt himself on the sharp horn. The unicorn huffed, and then promptly laid down next to him, tucking its legs under itself and gently pressing its warm, soft nose against his shoulder.  
“….what.”  
He extended a hand and touched the unicorn’s head. The fur was exquisitely soft, not even silk could compare to the feeling it left on his fingertips. He gently stroked its coat, expecting to wake from what was clearly a dream any second. This could not be real. Yet the unicorn felt very much real.  
The wonder of the situation did unfortunately not erase his weariness. He remembered huddling up between the roots again, and thought to feel a weight on his legs, that may or may not have been a unicorn’s head, before he drifted off again.  
He woke to daylight seeping through the tight roof of leaves. Looking around, the only proof that the unicorn had ever been there was the sorry state of his bag, and a single hoofprint. Grumbling, he packed up, discovering to his delight a sandwich the unicorn had either missed or simply disregarded and devoured it in a few bites. There was a river nearby to wash his face and hands and to drink a bit before he returned to the road. The day went by quietly, but the birds chirping over his head were enough company. He used the lonely hours to let his magic roam free, gusts of wind sweeping up his curly, shoulder-long hair and letting him feel the nature around him, both living and dead.  
What would Auchtermuchty be like? He knew that different sorcerers had different specializations, but could he pick for himself? Or was it something that got picked for him by people who had more experience? He really hoped it would be transfigurations. Or maybe necromancy, which was really just an advanced form of transfiguration as far as he was concerned. Raising things from the dead, truly raising them, instead of instilling a bleak copy of life, that seemed like a noble and wonderful purpose.  
Caught up in fantasies, he barely felt time passing, until his stomach made itself known with an angry rumble.  
He suppressed a grumble of frustration as he searched his bag in the futile hope he’d missed something. At the side of the road he found a few berries- He had forgotten their name but he certainly knew they were tasty. His father had made sure he knew his way around nature, even though words weren’t necessarily his strength in that domain. It helped a bit and when he didn’t feel too cranky anymore, he stowed another handful of the berries in his bag for later.  
As far as he could tell, he was nowhere near a town, let alone the end of the dirt road circling the marshland. The only people he’d seen all day had ridden on horseback, and for a moment he wished he’d not been so stubborn.  
Well, nothing he could do about it. He walked on until it got dark, humming tunes that popped into his head, interlaced with incantations that made the air around him shimmer. The transfigurations he’d worked on would have a common man run for their life - transfiguring a human, from something as small as their voice to even change their very form, reeked of the old scaretales. And sure enough, the spells had had a big red disclaimer written on top of the page, but Zargothrax could not have cared less if he couldn’t reverse the change - everything he’d done so far had only improved his mood and in the best case would help him avoid future trouble.  
When it had grown dark once more, he ate the last berries and emptied his water bag before looking for a way to spend the night. Following the light of his spell, he sought out a sheltered place between two trees. He was pleased to see that his light seemed to have grown in strength, while taking less effort compared to the day before. The color was different too, a warm yellow glow that danced over the ground, leading him safely to shelter. He settled into his resting spot and extinguished the flame. It seemed to struggle, dancing around his fingers one more time before finally vanishing. Maybe he did need more practise. While he was aware there was nothing of interest anymore, he slept curled around his bag this time.  
The next day proved to be tedious. Sure, it was summer, but the marshlands were not friendly to their visitors and by the time the sun stood high above him, Zargothrax had to admit that he had gotten lost. He vaguely remembered where he’d left the trail last night, led by his magical light -  
Hold on.  
He stopped, unwilling to get lost even further, and let the evening loop back in his head. Flicking his fingers like he had done a thousand times by now, he summoned his light. It was white, not yellow, and by far not as bright as the light last night.  
He could not- He could NOT have been that dumb. He knew how to distinguish a fairy light from his own, even when he was tired and hungry and disappointed that his trip had taken such a negative turn-  
Oh no.  
He looked around, searching for any signs of the familiar trail, but the dirt road looked the same to all sides.  
He was screwed. Very, very screwed.  
Well, the only way was forward. He pulled his pocket knife and edged a rune into the nearest tree, praying it was no nymph, and secured it with a spell. Then he went onward, following the directions of the sun. Hour by hour, rune by rune, he followed the trail leading straight ahead until he spotted something familiar - The very same rune he’d created hours before. He’d gone in a circle.  
Zargothrax walked up to the rune and mustered it. The very first one he’d made that day, alright. He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing. Then he screamed every curse he could come up with into the careless stillness of forest.  
After that he felt a little better and had thoughts to spare about how he’d continue and hopefully find a solution.  
About two hours later he stood in the same spot, significantly more hungry and exhausted, but no step further to getting out of this mess.  
If he’d truly ended up in the realm of the fae he’d rather starve to death than eat anything from here - not that there was anything in sight. There had to be some sort of glamour at hand, for the path had led straight ahead, without any branches or crossroads and yet he’d looped right back to the start twice now.  
He tried to dive into the aura of the land, but was rudely pushed away before he’d even untangled the first layer. The surge of energy wasn’t painful, just uncomfortable, and carried a clear message: “Don’t try that again or else…”  
Zargothrax sat down in the middle of the path and buried his face in his knees. He was so angry with himself he wanted to cry, and even more disappointed. Dying in the marshland before he even reached Auchtermuchty was a pathetic end. Lured by fairy lights like a damned fool.  
He didn’t notice falling asleep, or maybe he just zoned out, caught up in his anger, but when he lifted his head at the sound of steps, the sun had gone down considerably, sending its treacherously warm rays over the land. Zargothrax listened, unsure where the steps were coming from. They were definitely getting louder and didn’t sound human. A rider? The gods be blessed, maybe he was saved after all.  
He got up, groaning at his stiff back, and brushed dirt off his cloak. The steps were unmistakably the clatter of hoofs, but despite being able to see far in all directions, he could not make out the source.  
He screamed and nearly jumped into the nearest tree when something touched his back.  
Whipping around, he was face to face with the same unicorn he had already met twice. The brown eyes and asymmetrical swirl on her horn were unmistakable. He suddenly became aware of the looping pathways all around him, dirt roads that had been previously hidden by whatever glamour had covered the land.  
“Oh thank the gods, thank you my friend, thank you.” He couldn’t help himself, he wrapped his arms around the majestic beast’s neck and pressed his cheek into the soft coat, relief and weariness washing over him in a numbing stormwave. The unicorn neighed, and somehow he thought it sounded amused. He didn’t care. His savior could laugh in his face and it would not matter to him.  
“Can you lead me out of here?”  
He made a few steps in the direction of a path he must have walked past a dozen times. When he didn’t hear the unicorn follow him, he stopped and looked back. It hadn’t moved, just neighed again and knelt down.  
“This seems like a bad place for a nap, you know.”  
The unicorn did not answer, just shook its head, the soft brown eyes sparkling. Zargothrax hesitated. He’d never even dared think about it. The questlords on their armoured unicorns of war had edged themselves into his mind for eternity back when Cowdenbeath had been taken over by the Dundonian empire. The stories said the town had signed a contract, that the raid had merely been a crackdown on enemy forces hiding in the surrounding area, but the fear it had instilled into him was the same.  
He stepped up to the unicorn, hesitated again. When it didn’t move, he swung one leg over its back and was nearly thrown off when it suddenly leapt to its hoofs and took off. Unicorns looked like horses from the outside but anyone who claimed they were even nearly the same was a blubbering buffoon. The unicorn dashed forward like no horse ever could, its hoofs barely touching the earth. Soon they were out of the marshland and back on the road. The unicorn did not seem willing to slow down and Zargothrax had no way of stopping it. The wind had blown his hood back and he had to pull himself together to not shout his joy into the sky. With the wind rushing in his hair, flying over the land faster than he’d ever imagined possible, he felt like the king of the world.  
The ride didn’t last nearly as long as he would have wished, though the sun was already setting against the shadow of spires and houses in a strange style of build. Auchtermuchty lay ahead.  
The unicorn seemed to know, for it slowed down to a soft trot, barely out of breath from the hard ride. Zargothrax pulled his hood up to hide his glowing face, but he just couldn’t stop smiling.  
Gods, nobody would believe him, but he couldn’t wait to write home anyway. Riding into town, he enjoyed the looks of wonder and sheer awe of the passing people. Even the wizards - easy to spot in their colourful robes - looked like they couldn’t believe their eyes.  
In front of the gate to the university, the unicorn stopped. Zargothrax wondered how he’d get down, considering he had neither stirrups nor reins and the unicorn was taller than any horse he’d ever sat on. It didn’t seem willing to set him down like he’d gotten up.  
While he was still wondering, the unicorn huffed and suddenly bucked, throwing him off. He hit the ground with a yell of surprise and pain, in time to see a flash of lightning pass the spot he’d just been, nearly singing the unicorn’s fabulous mane.  
“I really thought you’d be smarter, but foolishness and boldness do go hand in hand.”  
He didn’t even have time to compute if he was injured from the fall when he was surrounded and someone pointed a sword at him that glowed with energy. Zargothrax stared up at the figures in abject horror. He couldn’t see faces, but the weapons and armour spoke a clear language: the Questlords of Inverness.  
“Alright kid, let’s make this easy. Tell us why you stole the unicorn and we will tell your magisters to MAYBE not throw you out.”  
“B-but-” His thoughts were spiralling wildly. Stolen? Magisters? He wanted to tell them the truth, to explain, but for some reason the only thing his mouth eventually managed was a meek “But I’m not even enrolled yet!”  
Silence fell and in that moment he knew he had fucked up royally. The Questlords burst into laughter. The figure that seemed to be their leader threw back Zargothrax’ hood with his sword to muster him. “So you’re a sorcerer who’s never been trained and yet used at least half a dozen advanced transfiguration spells on himself. Remnants of necromancy too if I see that correctly. You know that’s forbidden?”  
“I-Is it?”  
“You’re a terrible liar.”  
One of the questlords dragged him to his feet and kept his iron grip around his arms as they escorted him into the university. Zargothrax managed to look back to see the unicorn stomp its feet and headbutt the questlord trying to secure it before they rounded a corner.  
The university was huge, with hundreds of pathways he had not dreamt of ever walking. The architecture was a lot older than most of the towns in this part of the country, with intricate carvings unlike anything he’d ever seen. He didn’t have time to enjoy the sight though. Mages followed him with their eyes, breaking into whispers as soon as they had passed, and now he had little to enjoy about the attention. The armored hands of the questlords dug into his arms, and there was no doubt they could break a bone should he even think of struggling. Their armor was magic-resistant, so they didn’t need to worry about even the strongest spells.  
They entered a courtyard facing a huge building with a massive spire. On the one side, a spiralling staircase led into the upper floors. People stared, including a short girl with red hair dressed in a sorcerer’s robes. Aha! So that had been a lie after all.  
Zargothrax refused to cower between them, despite his growing panic and the fact that his arms were slowly falling asleep in the Questlords’ brutal grip. He held his head high, knowing he’d done nothing wrong.  
Well, he hadn’t stolen the unicorn at least.  
“Master Azerion, we need to speak to the high magisters,” the leader of the questlords called. “We found the unicorn thief. And there’s more you might want to look at.”  
“I didn’t-”  
A warning squeeze nearly crushed his arm and he fell silent, clenching his jaw in both pain and anger. A blond sorcerer in green robes, perched on a bench under a tree, looked up from whatever he had been writing. He mustered them coolly, as if angered they had disturbed his work, and then vanished through a heavy door without a word.  
“Darned wizards, think they’re the top of the world,” grumbled the questlord to his right. He shook Zargothrax slightly and for the first time he got a good look at them without their helmets. The leader was a tall, stocky man with fire-red hair and a round scar on his neck that made him immediately think of a unicorn horn. The other one was slimmer with dark hair. Both looked tired, battle-worn and very, very annoyed.  
“How did you get into Achnasheen? Did someone bring you there? Were you paid?”  
Zargothrax stared up at him. His thoughts were running in ever-tighter spirals - someone had BROKEN into ACHNASHEEN? That person must have been insanely powerful.  
“Alright listen up you little shit-” Before the red-haired questlord - Zargothrax had the uncomfortable feeling the restrain on his violent fantasies was coming to an end - could proceed to action, the heavy doors slammed open again.  
Out came a lineup of figures that radiated with power, led by a dark-haired woman with cold blue eyes. All of them bore dark red robes of the most delicate fabric, embroidered with runes and scriptures that no ordinary man could decipher. The Magisters formed a circle around them, mustering the visitors with mostly unreadable gazes, many faces hidden under hoods.  
The questlords pushed him forward so suddenly he landed on his knees. The Magisters stared down at him in silence, while he heard the heavy steps of the questlords retreat to cut off any possible and impossible escape. Zargothrax got to his feet and tried his best to not let the feeling of a hostile court take him over.  
“We have been summoned to judge your case. What is your name?” The woman‘s voice was factual, but not icy. A tiny relief.  
“Uh. Zargothrax. From Cowdenbeath.”  
“Are you accounted for by the high seat of mages, young Zargothrax?“ He thought about the best way to do this. He knew the proceedings in a court. His mother had shown him the protocols often enough. And yet, anything but the truth seemed pointless right now.  
”…no. I just came here to enroll.“  
"An illegal mage using deadly magic and then he comes here thinking he can just hop into the party?”, the dark-haired questlord sneered.  
The magisters ignored the remark. Zargothrax still couldn’t make out all faces due to the setting sun in his eyes, but he hoped they couldn’t see his panic. He’d just experimented! Harmless fun!  
What if they wouldn’t let him enroll? He didn’t want to go back to Cowdenbeath like a beaten dog. He couldn’t!  
“You are accused of stealing a unicorn from the valley of Achnasheen and of illegal transfiguration on living things.”  
He wanted to burst out with the truth. Well, half the truth. But he knew keeping cool would be his best friend even though he felt a lump in his throat thinking he may have missed his big chance before it even began.  
“I did not steal this unicorn - any unicorn for that matter - nor have I even been to Achnasheen,” he said.  
“Horseshit!”, spat the questlords, nearly in unison. The redhead made a threatening step forward. “Unicorns don’t just run up to peasants.”  
“Sire Equestrion, I must ask you to contain yourself,“ a sorcerer to the right said. His face was hidden under a hood, but his voice was warm, laughter bubbling just behind the words. „The high seat of mages will see to your accusations, but his judgement is our responsibility.”  
The red-haired Questlord - Sire Equestrio, apparently - huffed and stepped back, but his burning gaze didn’t leave the young sorcerer in the middle of the circle.  
The woman - clearly head of the council - spoke up. “Zargothrax of Cowdenbeath, I can see that your very presence is interwoven with magic. Would you like to comment on that?”  
He hesitated, acutely aware that any wrong word could mean his dream to shatter. “No I would not.” Baffled silence.  
Someone to his right laughed quietly. „A smart move. He must come from a scribe‘s family.“ Finally, he could make out the speaker: it was a man in his mid-40s, with dark hair and sparkling eyes that seemed to gleam with laughter even when he was silent. Zargothrax tried to conceal the nagging feeling of anger and fear inside of him. He wouldn’t let the first day of the future he had dreamed of for so long be his last.  
“Are you aware what the stakes at hand are, young man?”, the sorcerer asked.  
“In the kingdom’s law, stealing is punished with a year in the dungeons and a whipping, but I assume as the questlords and the high seat of mages are involved that may be different.” He could be proud, his voice didn’t even shake.  
“Very perceptive.” He even seemed to mean it, the amusement in his voice now no longer concealed.  
“Intruding on Achnasheen is high treason. You will lose your head for this insolence!”, spat the Questlord addressed as Sire Equestrion. Zargothrax had to swallow at that.  
Oh. Well. That was not ideal.  
“In case he is guilty,” the mage said calmly. He turned back to Zargothrax. “The other aspect of this is your illegal use of magic. Every beginner tries around a bit, that is unavoidable, but your aura is full of rather advanced spells. If you are found to be too dangerous, your magic must be sealed, for your own good.”  
The floor dropped out under him, along with his jaw. The world seemed to shrink into a tiny black spot.  
Dear gods, no.  
They could not do that! His magic was all he had. He couldn’t go back home, back to being ordinary, back to being the outsider.  
“I’m not dangerous,” he heard himself say, his mind and tongue numbed by sheer horror. “I just wanted to learn controlling it. Why else would I come here?”  
“That is not for you to decide,” the mage responded. “But first things first. As the questlords are surely busy men,” he paused to let the sarcasm hang in the air, “we should first address the issue of the unicorn’s disappearance. Sire Equestrion has already briefed us on the case when Sorcha first disappeared, but please do tell us how you came to ride her here.”  
Zargothrax could barely feel his legs at this point, let alone his face, but he did his best to summarize what had happened, from the first meeting where she had stolen his food, to the day he got lost in the marshes and how she had broken the glamour trapping him there.  
The story with the fairy lights evoked laughter and some rather rude remarks from the onlookers in the courtyard, but he was past caring about humiliation.  
“I see,“ the head sorceress said when he had finished. It was silent for a long time. Did they have telepathy? He’d heard so, but the rumours had always been more imaginative than actual sorcery.  
Eventually, the other mage - would the others ever speak? - turned to the Questlords. "Sire Equestrion, please answer me this questions: Are unicorns able to leave Achnasheen out out their own volition?”  
Equestrion hesitated, his face distorting in anger. “Supposedly.” Uttering the word seemed to cause him great pain. “But there would be no reason for them to do so!”  
“I would not know. From your description, Sorcha is a 10 year old battlesteed and well capable of deciding who should ride her, am I correct?”  
Equestrion clenched his fists so hard his armor vibrated. His face had slowly taken on the color of his hair. “Yes.”  
“Very well. I do not know the unicorn as well as you, hence we are in need of your judgement: Do you think a skilled sorcerer would be able to kidnap Sorcha and force her to be their steed, without reins or a saddle to aid them?”  
Ser Equestrion relaxed a little and a smirk crossed his face as he mustered Zargothrax. “Oh, most certainly.”  
“Thank you, Sire Equestrion.” It was silent for a moment. The mage looked at the sorceress, as if to wait for her permission. Whatever communication took place between them, it was invisible to the outside. “In that case, young Zargothrax is freed of the accusation of theft.”  
Sire Equestrion‘s jaw dropped at that. His face first grew pale, then nearly purple. “I beg your pardon?!“  
"We respect your judgement about unicorns, Sire,” the sorceress said. “But as a mage, I can assure you that this young wizard does not have the magical capabilities to infiltrate Achnasheen, that is so well-protected by your own people.”  
Equestrion stared at them, his eyes threatening death and destruction. Before he could do anything to relieve his fantasies though, an angry neighing behind him interrupted the gathering. Sorcha seemed not interested in being saddled and had rather crossed the courtyard, dragging the helpless knight behind herself until he let go voluntarily.  
She pushed Equestrion out of the way and trotted over to Zargothrax, who stood frozen and helpless, aware of the dozens of eyes on him.  
He managed a shaky smile and pet her nose. The unicorn neighed happily and nibbled at his fingers. Her warm fur was comforting under his hands. Sorcha pressed her nose into his neck, almost like a goodbye hug, before turning and trotting away, past the baffled Questlords and out of town.  
“That seems to answer the question.” The air seemed to vibrate with suppressed laughter.  
“Indeed,” Equestrion replied stiffly. He turned on his heel and marched off without greeting, waving his knights to his side with a sharp gesture.  
The second they were out of sight, even the Magisters seemed to have a weight lifted off of their shoulders.  
“Impressive. Unicorns are very picky with who they approach,” commented the mage with the laughing eyes.  
“Indeed,” the dark-haired woman said. “Now young Zargothrax, there is one more issue we need to address. You came here to enroll, correct?”  
“Y-yes.” Now that the immediate threat of a painful death was off the table, he could think a step further. It didn’t soothe his worries. They couldn’t just take his magic! It was unfair!  
“I can see the spells you used on yourself. You will need to account for their sources and tell us why you chose them.“  
„I- I needed to practise!“, he explained, panic finally crashing down on him. „Stones only do so much, you know, and, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone-“  
„Indeed,“ the sorceress interrupted. „But that is a conversation to be had in peace and quiet. You will be escorted to my office tomorrow. It is getting late, and enrolment formalities do take a while.“  
„I- I can stay?“ They’d start laughing any moment, no doubt. This time, he’d pressed his luck too far.  
„Your case is not off the table yet,“ she said. „But it would be irresponsible to discard a talent like yours without thorough investigation.“ On an inaudible command, the mages turned like one being and walked back into the building they’d come from, leaving Zargothrax standing in the courtyard entirely alone.  
He stared at the closed door for anything between a minute and a lifetime, his mind blank between the mix of shock, relief, and incredulity.  
„Either you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met or a complete fool.“  
He turned, not done with processing the situation just yet. In front of him stood the red-haired girl from before. She was a head shorter than him, with a round face and freckles all over her nose, but looked insanely strong, even under the wide white robes. She grinned at him. „So, what is it?“  
„Sometimes I wonder that myself,“ he heard himself say. The girl burst into hearty laughter and clapped his back so hard his knees nearly buckled. She caught him with ease, the smile not leaving her face.  
„That is a great answer. I just came here myself two days ago, but you look even more lost. Need a hand?“  
„Gods, yes, please. I don’t even know where I can enroll.“  
„Oh, no big deal. I’ll show you. We girls have to stick together.“  
He glared at her. „I’m not a girl!“  
„Oh. Sorry.” She mustered him, eyebrows raised. “I already wondered why your voice is so deep. So what’s your name again? Was hard to hear over the fumes coming from that Questlord’s ears.”  
„Zargothrax. And yours?“  
„Sylphea.“ She frowned. „Eh, that’s a complicated one. Can I just call you Z?“  
„Oh, sure!“ He couldn’t help a smile. He never thought about a nickname before. It sounded nice.  
„Sweet. Then let’s get you settled. This place is huge, you better stay close before you get lost.“ She grinned. „I doubt you’ll get a unicorn to save you the next time.“  
He laughed. „Probably not.“ She linked arms with him as if it was entirely natural and led him off the courtyard and into the swirling walkways of Auchtermuchty. It was better that way, for Zargothrax was barely aware of his own feet touching the ground. He’d made it. Somehow, he’d made it.  
Now, things could only get better.


	5. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince and his princess make plans.

_A road north of Auchtermuchty_

As the sunlight seeping through the leaves began to fade, he sat down at the side of the path, well hidden from passerbys, and tried to sleep. His splitting headache made it hard to focus on anything, but if he was lucky, he’d pass out eventually. Admittedly, part of his sorry condition was his own fault. His father would be sorely disappointed to hear his son had drunken himself into a stupor to flee from his problems. Then again, the death of all his friends seemed like a pretty decent reason for escapism.

Mostly though, his head was killing him because of the injuries. He’d managed to bandage his arm with what he’d found in the pavilion, and treated various cuts and scrapes, but the pain his eye nearly made him pass out every time he tried to even fix the superficial damage, so he’d just bandaged it again and left it at that.   
At least he didn’t worry about going hungry - he’d packed everything he’d found in their hideout, which was more than enough for a few days. Probably a week, considering he hadn’t felt hungry in a day at least.   
He turned around, trying to take pressure off his burned arm, and wrapped himself tighter into his cloak. The howling wind didn’t get through the trees, but the ghosts of its bite still crept under his clothes and chilled him to the bone.  
He hadn’t wanted to leave the pavilion. It was all he had now, the last remnants of what he’d thought would last forever. But he knew it wasn’t safe. Their impenetrable fortress suddenly didn’t seem as secure when he’d remembered they’d sourced a lot of the power for the wards from Auchtermuchty itself, figuring since the pavilion was technically still part of the university grounds, nobody would notice. With the university and its stone runes gone, the wards would dissipate soon, leaving his survival up to chance.   
Zargothrax sighed and sat up. Sleep was far away still, that much was clear. He wasn’t hungry, and the sun in his eyes made it hard to think through the pain, but he knew not eating would only weaken him further. He dug through his bag and pulled out a few sandwiches. They hadn’t been preserved by spells, probably because Jelisia had made them for the evening. Dry or not, they tasted fantastic.  
“Thanks love,” he muttered, almost without noticing.  
Despite not having felt hungry in a long time, the food seemed to replenish his strength, even diminishing the pulsing headache a little.  
A bit more relaxed, he leaned back and closed his eyes. 

The clatter of hoofs ripped him from his slumber, but it was the voices that made his heart skip a beat.  
“What a dreadful night. I wish I could have spared you this ride, my beloved.”  
He’d recognise the voice anywhere.   
Angus McFife. The prince of Dundee, right there.  
In that moment, Zargothrax owed his life to nothing more than his physical paralysis. Every fiber of his being was ready to throw his most twisted, deadly spell at the despised prince. But he could not, his body too stiff and slow, magical energy drained from trying to keep himself warm.  
“Oh my dear, do not worry.” The voice was soft, pearling like water over ice. “I do not mind a ride in the dark. You’re here to protect me, right?”  
Her laughter was joined by his, then the click of stirrups touching as they led their unicorns to walk closer to each other.  
That had to be princess Iona. Zargothrax had never seen her, but he knew she was the woman in the shadows, the one controlling everything. Rumor had it she was a witch and had bejinxed the prince to do her bidding. Considering the absolute lack of magic he felt in the general vicinity, she was either the most powerful sorceress in the world - or it was just another wicked rumor.   
Zargothrax slowly raised himself, staying behind cover, and peered out into the road. The mindless rage had subsided enough to know he had no chance right now. Even a healthy, rested mage would not have had a chance. The hammer would absorb the blow and his life would be forfeited. He had to get Angus away from it first, then he could strike.  
They had stopped a bit down the road, only illuminated by their lanterns and the weak glow of the unicorn horns. The still night air carried their voices to his hiding spot with uncanny clarity. Prince and princess were draped in heavy cloaks that fell over the rear of their unicorns, now standing flank against flank. Princess Iona was as beautiful as the stories said, with high cheeks and full lips, her dark hair braided back in complicated patterns.   
They seemed to assume themselves alone, for she’d laid a hand on Angus’, slowly making him let go of the reigns and slipping her fingers into his.   
“What worries you, my prince? I see the distress in your eyes, and it pains me greatly.” She stroked his jaw, and he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. “You don’t need to spare me from your worries, my prince. I’m your wife, I shall join you in woe and triumph alike.”  
Angus nodded slowly, but didn’t speak. He pressed his cheek into her hand like a puppy looking for comfort, and Iona gladly gave him the affection he asked for, brushing his stubble with her thumb, a wistful smile on her aristocratic features.  
Zargothrax wondered if he could somehow push the hammer off into the woods, but it seemed fastened both physically and magically. Damned be this dreaded weapon! This might be the best chance he’d get.   
“My dearest…” Angus sighed, his shoulders sagging under his armor. “My lovely wife, I would not know what to do without you. I’m worried about my father, you see. His illness is getting worse, and he seems to have given up on life.”  
“I have heard, my dear,” Iona responded in a soft voice. She ran her fingers over his neck, like petting a frightened stallion. “I know how it must pain you to lose him.”  
“His advisors keep whispering to him, you know,” the prince said, barely taking notice of her words. His voice trembled, sudden rage overcoming him. “I’m too unstable to become king, they say. I’m worried he believes them over my word.”  
Iona cocked her head, her face ghostly in the shine of their lanterns. The cloak of the perfect, calm princess fell off of her like morning frost melted under the sun. “So what?”, she sneered. “You’re his only son and his rightful heir. They would not dare to oppose you openly if they value their lives. And if anyone is likely to be assassinated, that would be me.”  
“Don’t even say that aloud, my love.” Angus clutched her hands, placing a kiss on her fingers. “Without you, my life would have no worth or purpose.”  
Iona laughed, her voice clear like a ray of sunshine on a winter day. “Oh Angus you silly gooseberry, I will not leave you anytime soon. We McDougals are resilient, do not worry.” She bent over and kissed him, with quite a bit more passion than a princess should show in public.   
“I know, my dear,” Angus muttered as they separated. “But I cannot bear even thinking about it.”  
“Then don’t.” She smiled. “But you are right, their advice to your father is a problem. I’ll take care of it. You should prepare for the meeting with the Questlords. If they agree with our offer, we may be able to advance upon Edinburgh before winter hits.”  
Angus shook his head, his worry mixing with irritation. “How can I ride to Inverness knowing there is a sorcerer on the run, ready to strike whenever?” The prince’s eyes flashed with rage, his hand instinctively grasping for the hammer strapped to his back. “Best warriors in the land, ridiculous. Proletius better bring me this wizard soon if he wants to keep his head.”  
“I understand your distress, my beloved,” Iona said, once again the cool strategist, though a smile hid in her voice. “But losing the knights of Crail will surely set us back by months. I think Ser Proletius knows very well that he should do nothing short of his best.”  
“He better do!” His growl turned into a sigh under his wife’s gaze. “You’re right once more, beloved. I think I did make myself clear last time.”  
Iona suppressed a laugh. “You did, my love. Proletius is loyal to us, do not worry. Focus on the Questlords, and your future. Everything else will fall into place.”  
“Alright then.” Angus smirked and pulled Iona closer to kiss her, making the princess nearly fall off her steed. Angus caught her with ease, both bursting into laughter.   
“Angus!”, she scolded.  
“My apologies, princess.” He grinned as he helped her sit up again, a strange quality to his gaze. “You know, it’s far until Dundee.”  
“Indeed it is.” With a graceful swing of her leg, Iona changed steeds, huddling comfortably into her husband’s lap. He kissed her neck and then rested his chin on her shoulder.  
“What would I do without you,” he muttered.   
Iona answered something too low to hear, and he giggled, the childlike sound turning him into the boy he actually was, a mere 19 years of age.  
“What do you think, love, when will it be acceptable to plan the coronation? The nurses gave him about a month, should we wait until October or start earlier?”, Angus pondered. “I’d really hope it stays sunny, but I suppose the snow would suit you better, my dear.”  
Iona huffed and slapped his fingers with playful force. “Now THAT was rude, my prince. I’ll have your next bath filled with ice water.”  
Angus pouted, giving her the most pitiful face. “You’d never.”   
“I think we both know the answer to that.”  
He grimaced, less joking now, though Iona didn’t see. Angus tied the unicorns together and then spurred his steed to fall back into travel speed. Soon, their voices and light had faded in the distance, like ghosts in the fog.  
Zargothrax fell back, every muscle trembling, staring into the darkness.  
He’d wanted to kill them. He’d wanted to throw his deadliest spells at them, the spells he’d only dared study in secrecy - there was nobody left to prosecute him for it. If he couldn’t hurt Angus directly, then Iona would do. The prince worshipped her. Iona’s death may just be the leverage he needed to get to him.   
But when he’d tried, nothing had happened, not even a spark flying from his fingertips. Whether it had been his own hesitation in face of their innocent bantering - you needed to mean a deadly spell with all your being - or simply that he had run out of magical energy, he’d failed. The prince and his princess, presented to him on a silver tray, had gotten away. The prince soon to be king, if he was right about king Alastair’s state.   
The good news was, he didn’t need to think about it for long.   
Weary and in pain, his body took the easy way out, once more cloaking his mind in blissful darkness, until the first light of a cold morning woke him.   
He would have gotten up and continued his travel, but really, where was he to go? He’d left in the general direction of “north” because he knew the pavilion wasn’t safe. Sooner or later he’d reach Dundee, or if he walked for a few weeks, Unst. That did seem like a bit too much effort though, considering he didn’t have a plan beyond “Revenge”.  
He bore no personal grudge against the princess, but maybe if he could get to her, Angus might show a weak spot. He did seem to be entirely bewitched by her, without actual magic involved.   
Love was weird.  
Well, he didn’t get warmer from sitting around. He stretched, thanking the thick cloak for keeping him more or less comfy, and returned to the road. The bandage around his eye had been entirely soaked by the moist air, but with a tad of magic he could make sure at least the cuts didn’t open again. Without the bandage, the lights were terribly bright, and even under the shade of his hood, every ray of sunshine made his head explode in agony. It didn’t take long until he could not bear it anymore and diverted from the path to seek out the more sheltered routes, but even that did not help for long. It was hardly noon when he had to rest again, huddled between the roots of a tree with his eyes closed, hood deep over his face.  
He wouldn’t get anywhere like this. He needed to find a healer. A real, magical one. Or well, a mundane one would do too. Anything so this dreadful pain stopped.  
At the same time, he knew his chances had never been worse. Auchtermuchty was gone, their libraries most likely burned, all healers dead. The news of the raid would spread within days, and then he wouldn’t be able to show himself anywhere. The second someone noticed he was a sorcerer would be his death sentence.  
“Why, sitting around in the cold all alone? A strange way to spend the day.”  
Zargothrax jumped, summoning the first defensive spell that came to his mind, which included greenish blue sparks dancing around his hands.  
The old woman observed him with a chuckle. “Why, a magical practitioner. I heard these are quite in demand in the royal house right now.”  
Zargothrax stumbled to his feet, his already blurred sight vanishing in blackness, limbs tingling. Without the tree, he may have simply fallen over. It took at least a minute until his sight cleared.  
“Dear me, you must be exhausted,” the old woman said. She must have been tall once, but age had bent her spine until she was no taller than a child. She was covered in a thick cloak, a veil covering her hair. But between the deep lines in her face sparkled intelligent green eyes. She offered him a hand twisted by age. He hesitated, then took the help. Her grip was far stronger than it should be.  
“Seeing you wander around here all alone makes me think you’re afraid. I’d be too, I assume, after that dreadful experience.”  
“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he stammered. Well, this entire “lay low” thing had worked out great.  
The old woman chuckled and shook her head. “I know these robes. You’re a sorcerer from Auchtermuchty.”  
Zargothrax looked down at the aged, but powerful hand still closed around his own. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but-  
“You look like you need a hot soup at the least, dear. Come along, my house is nearby.”  
Zargothrax didn’t move. He was no fool.   
“The knights of Crail are searching the area, hunting for someone who got away,” the old woman explained, mild, but factual. “I won’t harm you nor hand you over to them at any point. I promise.”  
The crackle of energy took him by surprise. A magical oath?   
It was in no way secure, but what choice did he have? “...alright then.”  
The old woman nodded, satisfied, and led him deeper into the forest.  
She hadn’t exaggerated, the house was nearby. Well, house was an exaggeration. A run-down hut, leaning to the left in the windy clearing, most likely held upright by the moss covering its walls was hardly a house. If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have assumed it inhabited.  
He reached the door first, scanning his surroundings with every mundane and magical sense at his disposal. The door swung open by itself, creaking pitifully.  
Inside, nothing. Musty floors, more moss, a stray mushroom.  
Perplexed and with every fiber in his body tense, he turned, expecting an attack by whatever had lured him here.   
The old woman merely walked past him, waving a hand for him to follow. The second she crossed the threshold, warmth hit him in the face, the house lighting up with the homely glow of candles and magical lanterns.  
Instead of the moss-covered wood, there were soft rugs, the smell of stew coming from a tidy little kitchen, and a comfy sofa at the far wall.  
Zargothrax checked every layer of magic he had ever heard of, but only when he stepped through the door did he notice the faintest sign of a glamour. The owner of the house, however, had not changed - against his expectations. She was still the bent, wrinkled old woman, now taking off her cloak and veil. Her white hair was cropped short in an unusual fashion, and she wore a dark green dress under her cloak, fastened with a belt much like his own.   
“Can I get your name dear?”, she asked, walking over to the stove to sprinkle herbs into her stew.  
“Z-“ He halted himself. “You can’t have my name, but you can call me Z.”  
The old woman chuckled. “Ah, very smart move, Z. They do teach you about the fae at Auchtermuchty then.”  
He looked around nervously. The door still seemed unlocked but the glimmer of the fae was more powerful than anything his teachers could have crafted. He cursed himself for walking into such an obvious trap, led by fear and the need for even the slightest comfort.  
“I’m human, do not worry yourself, dear,” the woman said with a chuckle. “My name is Isla. Am I right assuming you are the very man my dear Sylphea told me about?”  
“You know Sylphea?!”   
Isla nodded, not taking her eyes of the stew. “She was always our pride. By a long shot, you do not know what happened to her, do you?”  
Somehow, he’d ended up on the sofa. It was magnificently warm and comfy. “I- I don’t know.” He stared down at his hands, reddened by the sudden temperature change. “She’s gone, I think. Like all the others.”  
“I see.”  
Isla prepared the stew in silence, and then handed him a bowl. It was the best food he’d gotten in days, possibly years, not only because he was cold and exhausted. They ate in silence, until distrust triumphed over gratefulness.  
“Who are you?”  
Isla looked at him with a strange expression. “What do you think?”  
He finished his soup, well aware that now that he’d taken it in the first place, eating more would not do any more damage in case she was of the fae after all.  
“A sorceress or warlock, I’d say. You know Auchtermuchty and you know Sylph.” His thoughts flew back to his rather rude awakening. He hadn’t paid attention to it back then but she hadn’t sounded particularly surprised. “Were you looking for me?”  
She smiled, deepening the valleys of time in her skin. “Not you, specifically, if that worries you. But the knights of Crail spoke of an escaped wizard, and I thought I’d go and see if I could find you. To be sure.”  
“Sure of what?”  
Isla stared into space for a moment. “Sure to get to you first. Before them.”  
“Why?”  
Again, silence. “They didn’t have a right to do this. Angus is out of his mind.”  
“Agreed. But how do you know all that? How do you know Sylphea? Were you at Auchtermuchty too?”  
“I used to teach there, even. But these days are long over. Today I’m not up for much sorcery… not enough to make an impact. Does your face hurt? It seems to be a nasty injury.”  
He hesitated. “Can you… do something about it?”  
Isla got up, stowing away her empty bowl, and gathered a few jars from her kitchen. Zargothrax already regret asking before she’d even touched him. He barely knew her, after all. Just because she said she knew Sylphea didn’t means he was a friend.  
He flinched back at her touch, pain flaring through every nerve fiber.  
“I’m sorry little one,” Isla muttered. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”  
In lack of a better alternative, he recounted his time in the lab and the explosion in a few sentences, but did not dare to think any further. “Can you fix it?”  
“No.” Isla sighed and got up. “Not the eye. Whatever potion you have been cooking up” - she gave him a pointed glance that made it very obvious she’d been a teacher once - “it damaged the nerve fibres around your eye. Even a trained healer would have trouble repairing such subtle damage and I’m none. But I can help with the superficial injuries. I assume you were too tired to tend to them yourself.”  
He nodded slowly. Isla motioned for him to take off his cloak and then robe. He obeyed, but merely pushed up his sleeves on the robe. He didn’t particularly feel like undressing in front of a stranger he’d just met, even if she was friendly.  
“How do you know Sylphea?”, he repeated.  
The pain in the old woman’s eyes made him wince. She tended to the cut on his face in silence while he tried not to flinch away from the pain. Eventually though, a comfortable numbness spread through his skin.  
“To the north, there used to live someone. A hermit, immensely powerful, but not fond of society. He was a skilled healer, among other things. You may find something of use if you can access his former dwelling.”  
“You mean the hermit Ralathor? I thought that was a legend.” He hissed in pain as she smeared a herbal ointment on his burned arm.   
Isla laughed quietly. “Oh no, my dear, he is no legend. I met him, though it was… a very long time ago. His magic will still be there, even if he is not. You do need a place to stay, don’t you?”  
“I suppose. Gideon always talked about him. We thought it was a ghost story. All wizards had to swear loyalty to Fife centuries ago, that’s common knowledge. That he’d escape or even oppose them… either he’s the strongest sorcerer in the world or just very good at not being caught.”  
“Perhaps,” Isla said. “I wish I could let you stay, but I have to tend to other things for now. Once you reach the cave you should be safe. The magical trail will lead you there. Take care, young Zargothrax.”  
He blinked at her. “What? How do you-”

“How do you know my name?” Zargothrax sat up, confused and frozen. He felt the icy bark of a tree under his hands, the cold autumn light blinding him and sending lightning through his face, all the way down his neck. “What in the-“  
He was back a the path, not a trace of the warm house left. Had the meeting with the old woman been a dream?   
Isla…  
Sylphea had spoken of her great-grandmother by that name, a sorceress of considerable power. Also dead for at least a few decades.   
He got to his feet, stiff from the cold and dizzy. And yet, it didn’t feel as terrible as before. He pushed up his left sleeve. No bandage, but the burn on his arm had faded to white, uneven scar tissue. When he touched his cheek, he felt the creases of scars on his skin, but no pain.  
This didn’t make sense. At all. Ghosts were certainly most real, but he’d never heard of anything dead or undead being able to use magic. He was a necromancer, top of his class at that, surely he would have heard of such a thing before.  
The clatter of hoofs made him wince and dive behind cover again. He could hear the characteristic rattling of armour before he saw them: Two knights of Crail, though not Proletius himself, riding down the path at a relaxed pace. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, in a dialect too fast that Zargothrax could make out more than their tone of friendly banter.   
He could cast a spell on them now. He could kill them, even.  
They didn’t have a hammer to protect them.  
But that would be his death, even if he succeeded. He’d never cast a killing spell before, let alone aimed at two targets.  
The anger of having let the prince go was enough to call him to reason. He needed to rest. And then he would strike back harder and more merciless than they’d ever feared. No need to waste his chance with two regular soldiers - even if they deserved to suffer as much as Proletius and Angus.  
They passed agonisingly slow, giving him more than enough time to curse them in his thoughts. He couldn’t kill them.  
But, he could certainly make their life miserable.  
For the first time since that dreadful night, a real smile spread on his face. If there was one thing he had experience with, then it was making life hard for people in the most annoying ways.  
“For Sylphea,” he muttered as he wove runes into their armor. Now, let’s see how much fun they’d have when their armor absorbed every bit of moisture around them and also clung to their bodies like glue.   
“For Jelisia.” A few flea would also do good, including the fitting stench.  
“And for Gideon.” And they’d certainly have fun getting off their unicorns when they were glued to the saddle unless they halted right next to a dung hill.  
He found himself giggling to himself when he wove the last rune, making sure it would not dispel before the next full moon, around a week from now. He’d have made it last indefinitely, but he pitied the unicorns too much to subject them to such torture.  
This nearly felt worth not getting the prince just yet, though he’d wished he could see the results of his work.  
When their voices had faded out and he’d waited a few more minutes, he got up.  
The first ray of sunlight in his damaged eye stopped him dead in his tracks once more. He cursed, throwing his hood up again, and automatically reached for his belt. Only that now, he actually found something there. In a pocket, he felt the familiar form of the protective glasses he’d worn daily for the better part of his education.  
Perplexed, he pulled them out under his cloak and stared at the tinted lenses. This was impossible. He knew exactly what he’d taken from Auchtermuchty, and this wasn’t it. Or… had they been in the pocket all this time, and he’d simply been too consumed with pain and anger to notice?  
He put them on and faced the sun. It was better, though not perfect. A light-diverting spell - relic of a long-ago elemental magic class he’d taken - solved the problem. He was blind in one eye now, but with every glance causing him to nearly topple, this was clearly an improvement.  
He couldn’t help a grin. Whatever the dream had been - there was no way it hadn’t been a dream - , it had cleared his head. “Thanks Isla.”  
He received no answer - not that it was terribly unexpected.   
He felt better now. More alive. And ready for revenge.  
The house McFife wouldn’t know what hit them.


	6. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a plan is good on its own, but executing it often more difficult than it seemed. Even worse when your allies don't intend to listen to you...

Walking was a lot easier when he could actually see in front of his feet without a splitting headache. He picked a few late branberries and elderberries on the way, enjoying the freshness of their taste. In the foggy, moist air it wasn’t too hard to condense water right into his hands, which was a refreshing tradeoff for his still quite limited energy reserves.  
While he walked, he pondered on how he would be able to find this Ralathor’s former dwelling. The stories were well-known: It was a cave, somewhere between Dundee and…   
oh dear.   
If he wanted to get to Dundee, he’d have to cross the river Tay. If the knights of Crail truly were looking for him, there was no way the bridges were left unguarded. He could of course round the riverbed, running out to the west near Dunkeld, but that was a detour of a week, maybe two.   
Damn it! If only he’d have a horse...  
Cursing himself for not thinking of that earlier, he labeled it a problem for later. He’d not make it to the Tay before tomorrow anyway.   
By afternoon, the already sparse trees had made way for the highlands, merely populated by grass and some myrtle. Zargothrax did his best to lie low, casting a more or less efficient covering spell, so the eagles wouldn’t spot him so easily or mistake him for a deer.   
...on second thought, Crailian war eagles were the size of a horse and enjoyed eating deer.  
In that case he’d rather get caught.  
At dusk, he sought shelter, choosing a cluster of myrtle as a more or less helpful cover from both detection and the sharp winds that had been tormenting him all day. The sweet smell of the leaves reminded him of the twigs his mother would hang up in autumn, both as decoration and a reference to the crest of the McKenzies.   
His sleep was no short of horrific. The wind rattled the leaves around him, howling in his ears like demons, and the cold crept under his cloak in a way he had no counter for, not even a spell. When he was woken from the restless slumber that didn’t deserve to be called sleep, the sun was just sending its first pale fingers over the horizon.   
Zargothrax picked leaves from his hair, noting that he’d certainly do good with a bath, and stretched his stiff limbs.   
Hot breath flowed over his back, before something pushed him from behind with a growl.  
He screamed.   
Embarrassing, maybe, but quite understandable. Trying to scramble to his feet, he stepped on the rim of his cloak and landed face-first in the myrtle, the branches stabbing at him. The only real good news were that he’d managed to bring his arms up to shield his eyes and glasses.   
Still, quite the undignified death.   
The being snorted, and then the leaves crinkled as it took a few bites out of the bushes. Somewhere deep inside, he recognized that sound. The amused quality of the snort, something no being less intelligent than a unicorn could be capable of. Still, what were the chances?  
He slowly raised his head and turned to look, wanting to at least know what would end his life after all the struggle.  
“Sorcha?”  
The unicorn looked up, cheerfully chowing down on the myrtle and flicked her ears. The horn had grown in the five years he’d not seen her, but the unusual swirl had stayed. Even in the bleak morning light, her coat shimmered like the most exquisite silk.  
Zargothrax got to his feet and adjusted his glasses. This was impossible. They were dozens of miles from Achnasheen, and even if she was roaming Fife, how and why had she found him here?   
Maybe he was asleep. Or one of the berries he’d eaten hadn’t been what he took it for and now he was in a delirium, dying in the marsh.  
Sorcha stepped forward and nuzzled her nose into his neck. He ran his hands over her soft fur and eventually came to the conclusion that this was reality, or the most realistic dream in the history of sleep.  
“Being my savior once again, huh?” He couldn’t help the grin spreading on his face. He rested his cheek on her neck and simply absorbed the warmth she gave off for a while. “Thank you.”  
Sorcha huffed and disentangled herself from his grasp to kneel down, just like she’d invited him back then, five years ago. And just like then, he nearly fell off as she bolted before he’d settled himself properly, rushing over the marsh and into the highlands at a speed no horse could match.  
The wind was cold and uncomfortable, but the feeling of flight, of freedom, was the same. He spotted the shimmer of water within the hour, the river Tay stretching out left and right like a large grey snake. With Sorcha, he would need no more than a day or two to round the river bed. They needed to head west, round the river’s source, and then-  
Unfortunately, Sorcha had no intention of going west. Instead, she headed east, where he could soon make out a large bridge of grey stone and the silhouettes of eagles above it.  
“Oh, nonononono, Sorcha, no, we can’t go there.” Without reigns or stirrups, any movement was a precarious act of balance, and he didn’t dare kick her to get her attention.  
Was she planning to break through the guard post? Could a unicorn at full speed outrun an eagle? He wasn’t eager to try, but the unicorn clearly didn’t care about his plans.  
Sorcha slowed down as they approached, first to a slower gallop, then a fast trot, and then to human walking pace. The guards at the bridge - Knights of Crail, as expected - looked up as he approached.  
_I’m as good as dead._  
He did his best to fight the panic trying to rise in his chest. He didn’t have high hopes he could trick them. For a full transfiguration, though something he was proficient at, he simply didn’t have time or energy. A veil was his only feasible option, though weak and something he’d never bothered with much. Casting the spells as quickly yet carefully he could, he conjured up the first thing that came to mind: a Questlord of Inverness in full armour, though ruffled from the ride. He gave his face a slightly meaner look, but kept the scar. Lastly, he conjured the picture of a saddle and reins for his steed. This had to be enough.   
Sorcha was a unicorn from Achnasheen after all. His only hope to get through this.  
The knights positioned themselves on the entrance to the bridge, each armed with a spear, now crossed to block the path. “Halt! State your name and destination, traveler!”  
Zargothrax’ heart sank. If any of the knights tried to touch him, they’d see right through his glamour once they felt the fabric of his robe instead of armour.  
Still, he hadn’t received the title “scourge of Auchtermuchty” by giving up when things got sticky.  
“Who do you think I am?”, he barked, doing his best to alter his voice to that of a much bigger and more threatening man. “What is the uphold? I’m on urgent business to see his highness prince Angus.”  
The guards looked at each other, clearly hesitant.   
The left one cleared his throat. “We have orders from Ser Proletius to check every traveler. There is an escaped wizard-”  
“Why do you think I am here, you fool?”, Zargothrax interrupted. “The Questlords were called to aid in the hunt for the escaped wizard, as you clearly were unsuccessful.”   
The right guard clenched his jaw and took a step forward, spear readily in hand.   
“Listen up, you glittery unicorn cunt-” His colleague grabbed his arm and pulled him back, shaking his head. One of the gigantic eagles, positioned on the railing of the bridge, ruffled its wings, cold golden eyes mustering him. Did the spell even work for eagles? He had no idea.  
_Focus._  
“The Questlords of Inverness don’t care about your petty orders. I have urgent news for prince Angus concerning our target, and I will guarantee you that he won’t be pleased to hear that you obstructed my journey.” He glared at them for all he was worth. Sorcha neighed and took a step forward, her deadly horn coming dangerously close to the guards’ necks. They took a step back, automatically raising their spears as if parrying a blow.  
“Very well, Sire,” the guard on the left said, having gone pale. He dragged his colleague out of the way. “Safe travels.”  
“Certainly.” Zargothrax squared his shoulders as Sorcha crossed the bridge, her hoofs echoing on the stone. Looking down into the water beneath, Zargothrax spotted his own pale face and the red shimmer of his by now quite dirty robes.  
_Veils didn’t work on reflections._  
He could watch his doppelgänger in the water turn ashen, but did not dare look back to see if the guards had noticed. He did, however, meet the gaze of the eagle perched on the railing behind him.  
The beast let out a blood-curdling scream and flapped its massive wings in something that Zargothrax could only interpret as murderous intent, straining against the broad leather belts wrapped around its legs. The guards cursed, followed by the sound of hasty steps.  
“What is it, girl? I know you want to hunt, but we have to stay until tonight…”   
The gust of wind whipped the water’s surface, destroying the reflection.  
The second her hooves touched fast land again, Sorcha took off again at breakneck speed, leaving the bridge and the river behind. Passing towns and farms, as well as the occasional traveler, people did their very best to avoid the beast thundering towards them.   
Only when the sun touched zenith did Zargothrax dare dissolve the last spell, returning to his own appearance of a disheveled and exhausted young sorcerer. No eagles had followed them, or at least he hoped, having scanned the sky until his neck hurt. More and more people shared the road with them as they approached Dundee, though nobody stopped or talked to him. By the time the spires of the mighty city appeared at the horizon, Sorcha had slowed down to an even trot, only the clatter of her hoofs announcing that she touched the ground at all.  
Zargothrax kept his hood low over his face, cloak draped around him in a meek attempt to hide his robes. Most people here had likely never seen a sorcerer, but only one perceptive eye would be enough to seal his fate. Luckily, most people stepped back respectfully (and frightened) when they spotted the unicorn approaching.  
The spires of the citadel stood like exclamation marks against the white sky, towering over Dundee’s high walls, a reminder of the royal house’s power.  
“Dear friend, we must not get closer,” Zargothrax eventually said in a low voice, patting her neck to get the unicorn’s attention. “As much as I’d love to confront Angus, doing so now would be foolish. I need to find the hermit’s cave first.”  
Sorcha had clearly heard him, for her ears had moved back as he’d spoken, but she kept up both pace and direction. Zargothrax felt a little silly. Unicorns were magnificent creatures indeed, and highly intelligent, but not THAT intelligent perhaps. He looked around, wondering if he could jump off without hurting himself too badly. The unicorn was just so damn tall…  
He was nearly relieved of his dilemma when Sorcha neighed and bucked, jumping to the side as another unicorn, this one with a golden shimmer to its coat instead of silver, dashed past them. Sorcha shook her head and snorted angrily at them.  
The rider slowed his unicorn, already quite far down the road. The second he took off his helmet to turn and look after them, Zargothrax felt every shred of warmth leave his body.  
The red hair was hard to miss, as was the distinct scar on the rider’s neck, even at a distance.  
Sire Equestrion.   
He felt himself get smaller and smaller on his steed’s back, a futile attempt at not being spotted. Zargothrax has not forgotten the encounter five years ago, and something told him neither had Equestrion. The Questlords didn’t like being embarrassed. Especially not by a young wizard.  
“Sorcha, dear friend, if you understand even a shred of what I’m saying, please, I need to get away. Now.”  
The unicorn didn’t budge, though she pawed the ground in agitation. Get down and run? No place to hide, and he couldn’t outrun a unicorn anyway.   
He gently pressed his legs into Sorcha’s flanks. Still nothing.   
“Please please please don’t do this to me,” he begged. “Come on!”  
Equestrion stared at him, helmet under one arm.   
In his frenzy to get Sorcha to move, Zargothrax’ cloak had slipped back, revealing the dark red robes - the same ones that Sire Equestrion surely remembered from the people who had humiliated him.  
The Questlord roared, a wordless sound of fury. Dropping his helmet and replacing it with a wicked-looking sword, Equestrion forced his steed into gallop, charging at them with the terrifying force only a unicorn was capable of.  
Zargothrax acted instinctively, drawing upon the endless repetitions of combat spells Sylphea had forced him into. In a battle, there was no time for thought. Only boldness and speed would save you.  
His panic kicked his magic into overdrive and what in training had been a small electrical shock at best turned into a massive bolt of turquoise lightning. Sire Equestrion owed his life to his unicorn’s wits only, throwing him off before the spell could hit him straight in the chest and most likely turn him into ash on the spot. He hit the ground with a crash of armor and an undignified scream.  
The rune was slightly sloppy, hence the burst of water, supposed to throw them off, turned the road into a swamp on the spot. He didn’t have time to see how Equestrion and his steed fared though, for Sorcha had decided it was time to get the fuck out of dodge and left Dundee behind faster than Zargothrax could make sure he wouldn’t fall off and probably break his neck.  
Unable to influence the situation, he settled for pressing himself as tightly to the unicorn’s back as he could and keeping his head down. He was glad he hadn’t eaten anything this morning, for ti would certainly have left him by now.  
After what felt like an eternity, the unicorn slowed down. The raging wind had taken off, and as he slowly straightened, trembling so badly he wasn’t sure how he kept himself upright, he was faced with stone walls to both sides.   
The static electricity of magic slapped him in the face like a storm front. If the hermit’s dwelling wasn’t here somewhere, he was a lizard.  
“How did you know?”, he mumbled. Sorcha shook her head and huffed. If she could speak, she may have said “You _told_ me to come here, dumbass.” She stopped and knelt down. The tiny wobble it produced was too much.  
Zargothrax slid off her back like a sack of potatoes, flopping down into the grass without trying to catch himself. Sorcha huffed and got up. She pressed her soft nose against his cheek and then trotted off.  
“Wait-“ He barely managed to raise his arm, let alone stop her. He was shaking too much, the surge of adrenaline having cost him the last of his strength.   
He just lay there, heartbeat hammering in his temples, unable to comprehend the many twists and turns of fate, beginning with the fact that he was still alive and free.   
Staring at the stormy sky, Zargothrax started laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be honest, "glittery unicorn cunt" was the best insult I ever came up with.


	7. The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralathor is not too happy to have a visitor.

The cave was unassuming from the outside and inside alike. Sorcha had dropped him off right where he needed to be, but had it not been for the strong waves of magic, Zargothrax would have walked past it. In fact, he had done just that, several times, until he’d been able to pinpoint the entrance. It blended so well with the rest of the cliff it was nearly invisible even to one knowing it was there. When he’d finally found the entrance though, the magical lock was easy to open, rather the equivalent of a door ajar than truly locked.

Inside, it was blissfully dark. Zargothrax summoned his light, but kept it muted, just bright enough to not stumble over anything. After the first corridor, the underground chambers opened to what may have been a living room. It looked about as you’d expect a hermit dwelling to look. Not that Zargothrax had seen many - this was the first one, so he didn’t exactly have a comparison at hand. It was a bit dusty, like you’d expect in a cave. It was chaotic, or at least sported a system he did not understand, like you’d expect from someone who didn’t have many visitors. The crystals growing from the walls gave off a multicoloured light, the rest illuminated by flickering candles.  
There was a desk stacked high with scrolls and paper, a quill stuck upright in its ink pot, moving lazily in a breeze coming from somewhere. A wooden chest, a shelf and a chair completed the arrangement.

Zargothrax stopped dead in his tracks. This... did not look uninhabited. At all.  
In fact, it didn’t even look like the owner of this place had left more than five minutes ago.

Of course, when THAT realisation hit, he’d already taken one step too many and found himself in a circle alit with runes that he’d never seen before. The surge of energy nearly knocked him off his feet, though the only pain they caused came from his injured eye. Damned be his carelessness, and the treacherous darkness! What kind of fool just walked into a place that was right about brimming with magic, just because a dream had told him to?

He tried to dissolve the circle, just to be faced with a wall of spells that he’d never even heard of. The circle flickered angrily, sending a warning tickle of electricity up his legs, the air suddenly smelling of thunderstorm. Zargothrax immediately dropped all attempts at dissolving the trap, instead trying to remember if he had knowledge of any electricity rerouting spells.   
He did not. 

“I would not do that if I were you.” Zargothrax spun, though the voice bore no threat. The owner of this strange place - there was really no way for him to be anyone else - had stepped out of the shadows as Zargothrax had tried to frantically disentangle himself from the circle.  
The figure rounded the trap, his back to the prisoner, walking as if he had no concern in the world. The figure was tall and thin, the paleness of his skin betraying it was not used to a lot of sunlight. His face was though cloaked in shadow, shoulders covered by a cowl that seemed as much repellent as it was protection. Physically, he was about as imposing as a twig, someone easily to slip through crowds without being noticed.

Except his aura. Even someone with no connection to magic whatsoever would have felt the energy radiating off of him, spells interwoven in complex patterns, giving him the air of a commander. Though, in Zargothrax’ humble opinion, the majority of the command ran down to “Don’t talk to me or I swear to the Gods...”

“I mean no harm,” Zargothrax assured him hastily. “I just came looking for something. There used to be a hermit living here.”

“So you came looking for somebody you knew was not here any longer?“

Zargothrax cast a nervous glance down at the runes under his feet. They hadn’t moved or flashed again but with every second, his already overexerted survival instincts screamed louder. He had to get out of here.  
„I suppose“, he stammered.  
The stranger stopped, only for a split second. He seemed amused, the way Sorcha had seemed amused, though his voice betrayed no more than mild wonder. „You suppose? You go somewhere without knowing why?“  
„Well I don’t have anywhere else, do I?“, Zargothrax muttered. His eye twitched with a warning spark of pain. The stranger was right. This had been a bad idea. No need to add insult to injury.  
„I wouldn’t know,“ the stranger answered.  
„Are you the hermit Ralathor?“  
„Depends on what you want.” He stalked over to his fireplace and poured water into a cup. The smell of warm tea filled the cave. He didn’t offer his visitor a share.  
„I need your help,“ Zargothrax proclaimed as firmly as he could. His head was starting to hurt again. Gods, if this got any worse he may as well trigger the trap he was stuck in. It could hardly be worse than the pain he knew would follow soon if he didn’t get out of this light. The hermit - assuming it was him - didn’t seem particularly keen on helping out a fellow practitioner.  
„What, a grand magister of Auchtermuchty needs MY help?“ The laugh that followed was nothing but scornful. „Listen now. I will disband the trap and then you will leave. You won’t find this place again and I would not advise you to try. I have no business with your kind.“  
„But-“  
The hermit waved him off and sipped his tea. That was too much. The carnage of his home flashed in front of the young sorcerer‘s eyes, the faces of his friends, the voices of the knights, mocking their helpless victims.  
„Very well,“ Zargothrax snarled. „Throw me out if you must. I didn’t expect more of a spineless, selfish bastard who sits in a cave all day and turns his eyes from evil for his own comfort.“  
The cup froze mid-air.  
Zargothrax threw his hood back and ripped the glasses off of his face. This cunt should see his rage before he most likely killed him, what did the pain matter anymore?   
“I was told you’re the best sorcerer in all of Dundee, the only one who would not bow to kings or armies. But then again, it’s been a few decades and brave men never make it for long. Only cowards do.”  
Silence hung in the cave like a leaden blanket. That he hadn’t spat in front of the hermit’s feet was all. Either he’d get zapped out of existence right here or the king’s army would find him. He couldn’t run forever, not in his sorry condition.  
“What’s your name, child?“ The hermit‘s voice had a strange quality, somewhere between wonder and incredulity. But surprisingly, no anger.  
„Zargothrax of Auchtermuchty, student of the fourth form. For whatever that is worth now.“ He held the hermit‘s grey gaze, now clearly visible under the shadows of his hood, hoping the other man felt bad for his coldness.  
„You’re a student wearing a magister‘s robes?“ The hermit was clearly thinking hard, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.  
„I didn’t have much choice,“ Zargothrax said coldly. „And there wasn’t anyone left to complain.“  
„You’re injured.“  
„At least I’m alive, that’s more than the others can claim.“  
The hermit stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, he pushed his hood back, revealing shoulder-long dark hair and a stern face not used to a lot of sunlight, sporting a neatly trimmed goatee. He didn’t look that old, strangely, not so much older than Zargothrax himself, but his aura said differently. It spoke of decades of magic, maybe centuries.  
„Ah, no, gods, no I should have noticed, I felt it, damn it…“ The hermit turned away without paying any more attention to his prisoner, walking over to a desk stacked with papers and gadgets that Zargothrax could for the most part place nowhere but in a museum. “Damn it, I should have KNOWN…” Muttering to himself, he rummaged the desk, searching for something Zargothrax could not even guess at. „Sit down, I’ll take a look at your eye.“  
„….what?“  
He didn’t receive an answer. The hermit merely shuffled his papers and looked into a few crystals scattered about, mumbling to himself the entire time. His voice wavered between incredulity and denial, he cursed once, then suddenly spoke without emotion. He certainly did not care for his prisoner anymore.  
„The hell do you-” Zargothrax looked down, his protective glasses clutched in shaking hands. No runes. No glow. The sizzle of electricity had vanished, as had the pain.  
He was free.  
Stepping further into the cave, he nearly expected another, much crueler trap to spring, but he reached the alcove without incident and sat down on the only chair he could see, stuffing his glasses into his belt for now.  
„You’re Ralathor then?”  
The hermit nodded absently. He rifled through his papers, read something there and then turned to the shelf set into a corner of the bare stone walls, cluttered with jars and herbs without a visible system.  
He plucked up a few items and set them on the table before conjuring a white flame. The bright light burrowed through Zargothrax‘ injured eye directly into his skull, red-hot agony taking his sight. He screamed and toppled, instinctively clutching his face to shield it from the assault.  
“Well that answers my question,” Ralathor said wryly. “My apologies,“ he added after a moment of thought.  
Ralathor dimmed the light and tapped the younger sorcerer’s shoulder to make him sit up. Zargothrax did so, though hesitantly. His skull felt like it was going to burst any moment, his eye socket filled with molten stone.  
“Hold still.” He couldn’t even think of resisting before Ralathor’s magic had slipped into his head. The pain stopped. Just like that.  
Dear gods, how powerful was this hermit? Not even Jelisia had been able to shut off nerves so completely, let alone instantaneously.  
“I felt a major disruption a few days ago,” Ralathor said. “Rumor says Auchtermuchty was attacked. Where are the other sorcerers?”  
Zargothrax laughed at that. He just couldn’t help it. It nearly drowned out the sob that wanted to well up.  
“What other sorcerers?” He felt the tightness in his chest that had become his constant companion ever since that terrible night, but the tears wouldn’t fall. There had been too many of them in the past days. “They’re gone. They slaughtered them. Every single one.”  
Ralathor didn’t show any recognition of his patient’s emotions while he inspected the wound with methodical, efficient movements, but just for a moment, distress flickered in those cool grey eyes. When he spoke though, his voice was factual.  
“Your eye isn’t entirely past saving,” he said. “The cornea is scorched, and most likely won’t clear completely again, but I can at least repair parts of the nerve damage. It won’t be perfect, but it will diminish the pain.”  
Zargothrax nodded. That was better than he’d hoped for when he came here.   
Ralathor looked at him with a strange expression. Pity? Worry? Contempt? Confusion? Whatever it was, he didn’t speak his thoughts. The hermit merely turned and started mixing herbs. A flash of blue lightning ran over the jar as he infused the tincture with magic and then turned back to his patient. Zargothrax tensed, expecting the worst, but it didn’t hurt. He barely felt the hermit’s fingers on his skin.  
“Tell me what happened.”  
He did. He recounted every minute, every minuscule detail. Not to hurt the hermit, not to hurt himself. He just couldn’t stop it, the words just spilled out of him, like a wall had been broken, until his subconscious tapped into his magic and conjured the images in all their grisly glory, painting the bloody reality into the air.  
Ralathor stared at the projection, his task forgotten, and for a moment his fingers closed around the jar of salve so hard it seemed like the pot would simply shatter in his grip.  
“I see.” The words dropped to the floor like dead bugs.  
He turned away, storing the jar and wiping his hands on a clean cloth.  
“Why did you come here?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“That’s a lie, young Zargothrax. I don’t like being lied to.”  
“Call me Z, I hate that name,” Zargothrax answered absently. He held his hand in front of his face and closed his good eye. After a moment’s adjustment, he could actually make out something. The form seemed to be lacking pieces, like an incomplete puzzle, but he could see.  
“Don’t mess around, the medicine needs to get absorbed first,” Ralathor reminded him. “Now?”  
“Where else should I go?” As he said this, exhaustion hit him like the Hammer of Glory itself. His shoulders slumped. Without the table next to him he might have just fallen off the chair. He’d been on the run for nearly a week now, never able to relax. The hellride with Sorcha had done the rest. He just wasn’t made for this kind of life. “Auchtermuchty is gone. I can’t go home, they’d catch me in no time. I thought maybe… maybe I could find shelter here for a while. Maybe even scraps of what you left. Recover, build something, plan, anything...“  
His voice trailed off, unsure where his thoughts had led him.  
Ralathor didn’t speak. He’d gone even paler than his already pallid complexion, his lips pressed into a line so thin they were invisible. If he hadn’t been numb from exhaustion and the horrors of the past, Zargothrax might have feared for his life. The hermit‘s aura crackled with power, so strong even a non-magical being would have felt the sheer energy radiating off of him and run away in terror.  
„You need rest. If it hurts, use more of the tincture.“  
Zargothrax didn’t even get a chance to answer, let alone protest. The hermit dragged him over to the bed alcove and before he knew it, a touch of cold fingers to his forehead made sure Zargothrax would not wake for a long time. He did not see how the hermit threw a thick woollen cape over his shoulders and rushed out of the cave, rage flickering around him in flashes of blue lightning. With a crash, the entrance of the cave fell shut, locking itself with a click of magic, and it was silent.


	8. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralathor ponders his past, and we return once more to Auchtermuchty, long before any darkness could fall over it...

_ Outside the hermit’s cave _

The stars sparkled brightly on the night sky, clouds blown away by the aggressive autumn winds. Ralathor pulled his cowl tighter around his shoulders, trying to keep the cold out. He stared up at the stars he himself had walked some time, far in the past, far in the future. Sighing to himself, he dropped his gaze to the dirt in front of his boots. There was less to distract him there. Looking up at the constellations, he could not help but analyze them, compare them to the many maps he’d made, in many different worlds, always spotting one or the other subtle difference, before his thoughts got drawn to the war in the stars he’d left behind, the lives he’d failed, the blood on his hands. 

He hated this life. At first, he’d seen it as a noble purpose, a good use of his immortality, to travel the worlds and try to help as best he could. But so many worlds, years, and failures later, so many he could not count them anymore, he was tired. Always the same story. Always the same people. Always the same pain when he saw them perish. 

Centuries ago, he’d jumped at the chance to travel another universe, hellbent on undoing his mistakes, on doing better with each repetition. Now, whatever forces tortured him with this task had to nigh drag him into the next world they wanted to have him in. He could avoid it, of course, for however long he could ignore the itch in the back of his brain. But sooner or later, he always caved.   
If only he’d get instructions. Sometimes he had visions, knowing where to go and what to do, but this time, it had only been one word: Redemption.

Redemption for whom? For himself? For Angus, the boy he’d loved so dearly and seen die over and over, even in worlds the young prince had no stake in? For Proletius, the noble warrior? For the Hootsman, so brave and powerful? For Zargothrax?

He nearly laughed out loud at the irony of the situation.    
He thought he’d seen everything, truly.    
Seeing the Hootsman die had been bad. The reappearance as a god made it a bit more bearable, but the pain in the years in between had lasted in his heart.   
Having his friend Proletius, the bravest warrior, the most honest, kind and strong man he knew, corrupted by the knife of Evil, that wretched weapon, had been painful.    
That twisted, corrupted version of Proletius, gifted with some sort of foresight thanks to Zargothrax’ powers, recognizing him, his taunts soiling every fond memory the hermit had with his friend, had been worse than any physical injury he’d ever been dealt.

But an entire reversal of the actors? That was absurd. And it got worse with every new information. He’d seen the Hootsman, his dearest friend, the only one he could truly trust through all his misery, slaughter innocents and rejoice at the sight. Where the old Hootsman had been a fierce warrior, this version was a predator without conscience.    
He’d seen Proletius, a honorable knight and warrior, devise a strategy to most effectively conquer more and more of Scotland, not shying away from war crimes that others would faint at the mere thought of. And now they’d joined forces to slaughter an entire town of innocents.

He’d considered laying down his metaphorical guns. He was tired. Why not give in, this one time? Why did he have to take care of everything?   
This version of Angus was dangerous, no doubt. But his new preoccupation with exterminating any and all magical practitioners had its good sides, too. No wizards raising hell, literally and figuratively. It wouldn’t affect him, he could simply slip away. Get rid of Zargothrax before he could get dangerous, and leave this world behind.   
Or he could go to Angus McFife, seeing to returning the world to balance. All he had to do was swear a magical oath - and bend his knee in front of a tyrant.    
Angus would hardly take no for an answer, and Ralathor suspected that his death would bring no rest, merely a short break before he inevitably woke in the next world.    
Well, all kings died, even those bearing a magical, mind-altering hammer into battle, and maybe he could see to the world becoming a better place after Angus’ death. 

He could do it. 

But even if his own conscience had not been hammering away at his skull, he could not bear the guilt of betraying those who’d welcomed him so warmly. 

He’d just been about to grab his things and pay his old friends at Auchtermuchty a visit, when his wards had screamed intruder, and suddenly Zargothrax had stood in his cave. The fact that he’d made it through his defensive wards at all had told Ralathor his own choices had once again been overruled by fate. 

Exhausted, frightened and injured, this version of Zargothrax had no resemblance to the man he’d seen dissolve into dust, shining in the flickering light of fire like liquid silver.  _ That _ Zargothrax had spat curses at them to the last second, his face twisted into a grimace of hatred and disdain behind the splinters of his mask as his body slowly gave in to his lethal injuries. 

Just like Angus McFife XIII, the far too young prince he’d lost to the fires of Schiehallion,  _ this  _ Zargothrax was just a chess piece in the hands of whatever higher powers controlled their destiny, a child in over his head in a battle he had never wished for.

_ Redemption. _

Ralathor unclasped a necklace hidden under his tunic and opened it, staring at the picture inside. He should have checked earlier. He should have been there.   
The beautiful dark-haired woman inside gave no answer. At first glance, she resembled Princess Iona, both the kind, strong-willed woman he’d known in the past, and the brilliant, but ruthless princess of this world. But her face was rounder, with tiny freckles over her nose, and her eyes were marked with knowledge no mortal possessed, threads of lavender magic still intertwined with the necklace. 

He’d failed, again.

He had to make things right, this one time. Redeem himself, and maybe the others. 

And maybe then, maybe someday in the future, he’d find rest.

_ Five years prior  _ _   
_ _ Auchtermuchty, Academy of Sorcery and Witchcraft _

“Where are we going?” Zargothrax - Z, as the red-haired girl called him - peered at the white walls, clustered with anatomical drawings and lists.    
The enrollment had indeed been strenuous, not only because the adrenaline crash after the meeting with the Questlords and the Magisters left him exhausted and with barely a bit of energy left to tend to the aches he’d suffered in the fall.    
He’d expected a lot of paperwork, but instead, the old wizard tasked with the formalities had recognized his name and gone on a long-winding tale of how his mother Ailsa had fared in school, mostly by not being very good at magic but very good at pranks. Having heard those stories about a million times by now, he may just have fallen asleep if his ribs didn’t hurt so badly. He just wanted to take off his travel clothes and lie down for a few hours, but that luxury seemed to get further out of sight with every passing minute.   
Sylphea on the other hand, sitting next to him, had seemed fascinated, so he’d smiled through the whole ordeal, determined to not disappoint the first friendly face in his new home.   
After finishing the last tale, the old mage became interested in the question how it had come to pass that the McKenzie clan - where magic was passed down from mother to daughter - had a magically gifted  _ son _ . Zargothrax merely shrugged at that and said maybe he’d find out during his studies.    
When a clock somewhere in town struck ten, the old mage had gathered the papers and finally, finally let them leave. But instead of going to the cafeteria - Sylphea had helpfully pointed it out when they’d been on their way to enrollment - they’d headed off to the right, to a building surrounded by a vast herb garden.

Sylphea looked him over as if the question surprised her. “The healers, of course. Where else?”

“Why?”

Sylphea stopped in her tracks, staring at him as if she wasn’t sure if he was kidding. “Because you’re limping? And your ribs must be pretty banged up too from the way you walk.”

“Oh, it’s really nothing,” he assured her, already looking around for the exit. 

“ _ Really nothing _ is the step before dead.”

Out of the room ahead to them stepped the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She was tall, nearly a head taller than him. Her black hair was gathered in a myriad of tiny braids, ornamented with thin strings of deep blue fabric, matching the blue robe that hugged her body in a most exquisite way. Nearly black eyes mustered him carefully before the girl - she had to be about his age, maybe 18 or 19 - opened the door to her room and begged them in with the graceful wave of a hand.    
Inside the room, there was a boy who looked far too similar to her to not be her brother, down to the frizzy hair and dark eyes.

“So you’re this Zapperflax guy, huh?”, the boy said with a wide grin. He was as pretty as his sister, but in a more sunny, active way. 

“Zargothrax,” Sylphea corrected him, unable to entirely stifle her snort. “But we already agreed to call him Z.”

“You… heard?”, Zargothrax asked.

“Who hasn’t?”, the beautiful girl sneered. Her voice was a deep, mellow purr, enough to cause goosebumps over his entire body. She sat down on one of the couches in what was clearly a medical examination room and crossed her long legs. “You rode into town on a freaking  _ unicorn _ .”

Zargothrax rubbed his wrist, uncomfortable under the eyes on him. “Uh, yeah. That was… not planned, but yes I did.”

“That we also heard,” the girl said. He could not for the life of him read her face or voice. Was she annoyed? Amused? Mocking him?   
“Sylphea said you had a bad fall, I should take a look at that.” She motioned for him to take his tunic off. Zargothrax merely stared at her, mind blank in panic.

Oh.   
Oh no.

“Don’t be shy, Jelisia is nicer than she seems,” Sylphea said, laughing. She patted his back, luckily a lot more gentle than before. 

“Arguably. Though I don’t think that’s the problem,” Jelisia - what a beautiful name! - answered. She grabbed the other boy’s arm and shoved him to the door. “Alright, the show is over, you can keep pestering him later. I need to do my job.”

“So you can get the details first?”, the boy exclaimed in indignation.

“You’ll still hear it earlier than anyone in the school, so shoo! Sylphea, get him out of here please.” She did, though the boy complained noisily until the door had fallen shut. 

“Your brother?”, Zargothrax asked, trying to escape the uncomfortable silence.

“How’d you guess?” The challenge in her words was clear as day.  _ Go ahead. Say that we look different than the others. Ask where we’re from, or why we’re here. _

“I don’t think only children are so annoying,” he answered with a half-hearted shrug. Jelisia’s eyebrows shot up at that.

“Huh. Haven’t heard that one yet.” She motioned him to the couch. “Sit down so I can take a look at your injuries.” He did so, stifling a groan. “Sylphea said the unicorn threw you off in the courtyard. Are they really as huge as people say?”

“Bigger,” he answered, glad to escape the subject. “But really, I’m not hu- ARGH!”

Jelisia looked at him, her hands still around his calf, and lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Zargothrax clenched his teeth and dug his fingers into the edge of the couch, trying to control the dull pain that had begun to spread into his entire leg. He’d been able to ignore the entire time, there was really no reason for a healer to make it  _ worse _ .    
“It was okay until you touched it!”

Jelisia snorted. “With the numbing charm you put on it, I’m not surprised. But you tore a muscle strand, possibly a tendon, and I need to fix that. It would be easier if you took off your pants though, the fabric is in the way. Same goes for your ribs, I can see the energy you pour into numbing the pain. At least one is broken, by the way, you can be glad it didn’t pierce your lung.” She said all of this with such a neutral, factual expression that he had really no way of disobeying, though he left his tunic on, for now.   
Her hands were warm on his skin, working swiftly and methodical. There was nothing romantic about the entire thing though, because after having recovered from the initial shock of her beauty, he was mostly focused on not screaming in pain. Jelisia had dispelled all the spells he’d used to keep himself on his feet and now he had to face the fact that he was maybe worse off than he’d thought.

“How the  _ fuck _ did you manage to ride a unicorn?”, Jelisia asked while she was busy pouring her magic into his injury. He could feel things moving under his skin, repairing themselves. It was not pleasant, to say the least. “The Questlords have them all stowed away so neatly, I didn’t think a unicorn would even come close to anyone it doesn’t know.”

“This one did,” he answered when he was sure he wouldn’t curse or scream if he opened his mouth. He recounted how Sorcha had first stolen from him and and then saved his life in the marshes. He played down the role of the fairy lights a bit though - he didn’t want to seem like a  _ complete _ fool. When he’d finished, he found Jelisia mustering him with a thoughtful frown on her face.

“That’s… impressive. Pretty sure the Questlords hate you now though.”    
“Probably,” he answered with an awkward little laugh. “But when will I ever run into them again, right?   
  
Jelisia nodded absently. She finished her work by wrapping a herb-soaked bandage around his leg that finally, finally numbed the pain again. “That’s against the soreness,” she explained. “Alright, let me take a look at your ribs then.”

He’d hoped to avoid this. He’d hoped to avoid it forever, really, or at least until he’d found a spell to fix the mistakes nature had made.

His hesitation lasted a second too long. Jelisia groaned, placing her hands on her hips. “Listen, I don’t have all day. I can’t help being pretty, but you can definitely stop staring so I can do my job!”    
She glared at him. The energy coming from her made his skin crawl, not just because of his own fears. He remembered the stories he’d heard in childhood, about beautiful women with great power, coming from far away and settling into the highlands.

“Are you-“

“A Nymph? Yes. From my mother’s side. Can we get this over with now? I’m hungry and dinner doesn’t wait.”

“Sorry,” he squeaked. The glare made him wish he’d not said anything. He could feel his heart beat in his temples. “Just… don’t laugh, please. People have always said I look like a girl, but I’m not.”

Jelisia cocked her head, her braids falling over her shoulder in a tiny cascade. “Have you seen me laugh so far?”

“Uhm… no.” 

“That’s because I don’t. Hurry up.”

“O-Okay, sorry.” The tunic came off easily enough. The tight shirt under it, his constant companion for many years, did not. In the end Jelisia had to cut it open.    
It was possibly the most uncomfortable situation he’d been in since this entire mess started at age 13, but at least Jelisia didn’t say anything. She didn’t even seem particularly surprised.    
He screamed out loud when his ribs - one broken, two dislocated according to Jelisia - snapped back into place. He really didn’t want to cry in front of her, but the tears just came. His entire torso may as well have been engulfed in flames, and every breath just made it worse.   
Jelisia wordlessly handed him a tissue. Her magic wrapped around his own strings of energy, dulling the pain until he could breathe without wanting to shriek in agony. The bandages she wrapped around his chest were tight, but also brought a comforting feeling of familiarity.

“You shouldn’t wear that for at least a week or so,” Jelisia said, motioning to the scraps of fabric next to him. It was annoying that they’d had to cut it, but a few spells and a needle would fix it soon enough.    
Jelisia had her back turned, washing off the ointment she’d used in a sink while she continued her lecture. “And wear it less in general. I fixed everything I could, but that doesn’t hold forever. You can be lucky your magic protects you, otherwise your rib cage would be a lot more messed up than it already is.”

He muttered something vaguely affirmative, thinking he’d rather die, groping for his clothes. When he was finally properly dressed again, he found Jelisia mustering him in a strange way. The anger had dissipated a bit from her features and when she smiled, he nearly fell off the couch in shock.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said, strangely bashful. “I understand your situation, in a way. If you have settled, maybe you can come by, I’ve been working on a few spells in my free time that may be of interest to you.” Her magic was a bright, bubbly pink, the smallest glint visible in her dark eyes as she scanned his aura. “Though you weren’t idle either, as far as I can see.”

“Uhm, alright?” He got up, careful not to put too much pressure on his leg. “Sure, if you… if you want.”

Jelisia mustered him for a second longer, gaze unreadable once more. “Good.”

The second she opened the door, Gideon and Sylphea were on their feet. “Ohh you look a lot better already,” Sylphea commented with a smirk. 

“Can I get to hear the story now?” Gideon was basically jumping on the spot in excitement.

Jelisia rolled her eyes. “Ask  _ him _ .” 

Sylphea linked arms with Zargothrax as if they’d been friends for ages, helping him take pressure off his injured leg. The pain had dulled considerably, much more than he could have done by himself, but he was still grateful for the support.    
The bustling of students on the courtyard had died down considerably, but the few they passed didn’t let themselves be stopped from openly staring. Sure, coming into town on a unicorn was impressive, but right now he felt like a fool. It didn’t help that Gideon drilled him with questions the entire way.

“You should get used to it, you’ll have to tell that story a few thousand times over,” Sylphea joked.    
The conversation was cut off when they entered a huge hall that was abound with voices. Gideon went to get dinner for him, after a not very subtle shove from Sylphea, motioning at Zargothrax’ bandaged leg. They sat down at a table with wizards cloaked in light blue, healers, as Sylphea explained. Jelisia went off to greet her classmates, leaving them behind at the edge of the table.

As they were eating - it truly was the best meal he could have wished for, his body finally realizing it was starving after the long day - he tried to take in every detail, every voice and color around him. This was where he belonged, among others that were just like him.   
“You really made an impression,” Gideon said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Liz is usually not that friendly to strangers, especially if she’s hungry.”   
“Oh, uh, really? That’s… nice?”, Z stammered.    
If that was true he didn’t want to know what she was like to people she  _ didn’t  _ like.    
He shovelled some cauliflower into his mouth, trying to avoid the eyes that slowly began turning towards him from all directions, thanks to Gideon’s lack of volume control.    
His travel clothes had to stand out like a sore thumb between the pristine, colorful robes.   
The words of the dark-haired sorceress suddenly popped back into his head. She’d not seemed angry but...   
“Do you think they’ll let me stay? The lady from the council said she’s gonna decide tomorrow, after we’ve talked in private...”   
Gideon looked at Sylphea, having gone pale. “What, really? Lady Moira wants to talk to you alone? She’s like… the most famous sorceress ever. Really powerful.”

“I’d be lying if I said I knew,” Sylphea admitted. She laid a hand on Z’s arm and smiled. “But from what I heard, she’s fair, at least. As long as you didn’t do anything actually evil, I think you’ll be fine. And you caught Magister Periornas’ eye, he’s the necromancy specialist. He’s supposed to be really kind.”

“Maybe he’ll even want to take you on as a student!”, Gideon exclaimed excitedly.

“I should highly doubt so.” To say Zargothrax flinched would have been an understatement. Looking up, the blond mage who’d been sitting in the courtyard when Zargothrax was dragged into the university towered over them. The mage’s blue eyes mustered them coldly, as if he was overcome with disdain even standing near them. “The McKenzies may be influential where you come from, but that bears no weight in here, so don’t think you’re special.”

Zargothrax didn’t think he was special for his family name alone. He wasn’t even sure what the sorcerer was referring to. However, he did not say so nor did he get the chance, had he wanted to.    
“Lady Moira will see you at 8 in the morn. Wait in front of the library, you will be picked up and escorted to her office. Don’t be late.”

With this, he turned and stalked away, his green gown flowing behind him. 

“What stick got stuck in his ass?”, Z asked when he was sure the sorcerer was out of hearing range. Sylphea pulled a face. 

“That’s Azerion. He’s… I don’t even know what. Some sort of right hand to the council, in lack of making it there himself. You gotta ask Jelisia, she’s been here for two years, she should know.”

“We gotta get you some robes,” Gideon said, already back to stuffing his face with the small pies that were served as dessert. “Gotta look good when you see the head sorceress. I’ll ask Lizzie if she can help you find everything, I’m still a bit fuzzy on where what is. So you’re from the McKenzie clan? Why didn’t you say so?”

“It didn’t seem relevant.” Z chewed down on a bread roll while he pondered how much he could safely reveal. “I heard they’re famous, but my mom doesn’t have much contact to the rest of her family,” he explained, choosing the phrasing carefully. “They thought I wouldn’t inherit any magic, being a man and all that, so they just kind of ignored me.” That sounded like a story he could stick to for now. The best lies were always close to the truth.

“Ohhh, family drama,” Sylphea said with a grin. She shoveled more tiny pies on her plate and then on Z’s as well, ignoring his protest. She winked at him. “You gotta tell me more some time.”

He just shrugged. Maybe, someday.    
After dinner, his evening consisted of telling the same story again and again, because once everyone had their stomachs full and hence attention to spare, it didn’t take long for them to match one and one. The three minute walk to the dormitories stretched into over an hour. Gideon had run off to get his new robes and eventually managed to get them away from the other first year students and into his assigned room, where Z collapsed on the bed the second the door was closed. 

By sheer force of will, he forced himself to change clothes and store his belongings in the tiny wardrobe next to the bed before lying down. There was not much else, only a sink and desk. The window let in the last rays of the summer sunset, shining down on nothing more spectacular than a patch of grass. 

More or less clean from what he could do with the water in the sink and wrapped in a soft sleeping gown his mother had given him the day of his departure, he fought to find a comfortable position.    
Despite the leaden weariness, sleep would not come. His ribs were still terribly sore, and thinking of the meeting tomorrow made his chest clench up in the worst way.    
It was not merely the threat of being kicked out that troubled him. What if this Lady Moira decided he was dangerous? What if they took his magic? The thought alone made him so anxious he felt a lump rising in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. 

He jumped when someone quietly knocked on his door. Somehow, he must have fallen asleep after all, for the moonlight falling through the window made the figure that slipped in through the door glow ominously. Sylphea had let her hair down, falling on her shoulders in soft waves. The sleeping gown accentuated her powerful frame, despite being so short. He wondered what kind of life she’d led so far.

“Hi,” she whispered, advancing upon the bed and sitting down next to him. Z was too perplexed to protest. “I couldn’t sleep. Do you mind me staying here?”

“Uhm, no, I- No,” he stammered. “I… I couldn’t sleep either.” 

“Are you scared of the meeting tomorrow?”

Lying was pointless, when the answer was so obvious. And even if it had not been, Sylphea had the air of someone who  _ knew _ . He could feel her essence, the lively green of leaves in spring, dancing around her in small bursts, advancing upon his own magic without intruding. 

“Yes,” he admitted. He sat up and they huddled up on the bed together. It felt nice. Less lonely.   
“What if… what if they take my magic? It’s all I have! I don’t want to go back.” Sylphea nodded, a sympathetic smile on her round face. Why did he feel like he’d known her all his life? He felt comfortable around her, more comfortable than he’d ever had with a stranger, let alone any so-called friends he’d had so far. 

They talked for hours, about his worries and hopes, their past and what the future would bring. When he fell asleep, it was with his head on Sylphea’s shoulder, her arm draped over him in slumber. He managed to draw a blanket over them, his thoughts already fuzzy, but content in the feeling of warmth and safety Sylphea’s presence brought.

He was home.


	9. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are being made, not only by our heroes...

The first warm fingers of the sun woke a Ralathor from his pondering. Had he slept? Or merely been so wrapped up in his memories that the night had passed without notice? He got up, groaning low at the pain in his stiff back. He shook the cold from his clothes and looked out over the lands for a moment more.

In the distance, he spotted the shape of a lonely unicorn on a hilltop. It seemed to watch him. How long had it been there, all by itself? The Questlords would not be happy. Though Cowdenbeath was merely a day’s ride away from Achnasheen, in unicorn terms, it was an unusual place for a lone unicorn to stray. Ralathor wondered if he should try to approach it, but the second he had formed that thought, the unicorn turned and trotted away.

The hermit made a mental note, but did not see the necessity to act. For now.

He returned to his cave, passing through layers upon layers of wards. He was greeted by an unusual warmth and the smell of fresh porridge. Frowning, he slowed his gait. Everything was exactly where he had left it, to the inch almost, except the kettle next to the fire. It was filled with porridge of nuts and berries, with a hint of honey. Judging by the marks of a ladle inside the kettle, part of it was already gone, though he could not see any more signs that anyone had been here except for him.

More curious than angered, Ralathor left what could most likely be considered the kitchen and advanced into the tunnels beyond. He’d assigned his visitor (he didn’t want to think of him as a protégée. Not yet.) a room he usually used for reading, but housed a comfy nook filled with pillows. As he had expected, young Zargothrax - Z, as he liked to be called - was curled up between the pillows, his limbs wrapped into a blanket. The bandage on his face was stained with fresh tincture, so he must have woken at some time during the night. 

He shouldn’t feel any pain, Ralathor had made sure of that, yet his slumber was anything but calm. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply, face twisted in a snarl that reminded Ralathor uncomfortably of the last time he’d seen this face, older, but no less furious. The young sorcerer was muttering to himself, in the steady rhythm of an incantation. It took Ralathor a while to make out the words. It was no incantation, not one of the traditional sort at least.

It was names.

Jelisia. Gideon. Sylphea. 

Over and over again, sometimes quiet and defeated, sometimes pleading, sometimes with so much anger the hermit nearly recoiled. 

He had not been to Auchtermuchty in a long time, not before this day. But he was sure if he checked, Proletius’ men had crossed off these names at some point, a small tick on a list, accumulating three lives.

He could feel himself grow weak and fought it with all his being. He’d sworn to himself to not get close to mortals again. Not after what had happened to Proletius, not after what had happened to Angus the 13th. Not after Hoots.    
He’d thought seeing his old friend twisted by darkness had been a low blow.    
Seeing Hoots die had been a stab to the gut at best.   
But knowing that this time, his friends were not corrupted by any magic but humanity’s inherent cruelty, made his heart wrench in a way he’d hoped to never feel again. 

Ralathor sighed and touched the young sorcerer’s shoulder. He stirred, but didn’t wake, wrapping himself tighter into the blanket like it would protect him from the world’s perils. Ralathor shook him, a bit more harshly than necessary perhaps.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Zargothrax’ good eye flickered open, fogged by whatever world he’d just left, and yet full of relief. He sat up, drowsy and disoriented, his voice that of a confused child. “What time is it?”

“Dawn. Did you touch my kitchen in any way?”

Zargothrax stretched, wincing a bit at the strain it caused in his still sore muscles, then drawing the blanket around his shoulders, as if embarrassed to show himself. Ralathor had noticed the remnants of spells engraved into the sorcerer’s body, but he’d see people turn into trees for the sole reason that they wanted to, he didn’t particularly care.

“Oh, the porridge? Yes, that was me. You weren’t home when I woke up and I thought since you are so kind to let me stay I’d make you breakfast. I hope I didn’t disturb anything, I tried to keep everything as it was.”

“I see,” the hermit said slowly. Even later: “Thank you.”

By that time, Zargothrax had already peeled himself from the sheets and started to take off the bandages in front of a small mirror of air he’d conjured from the heat still trapped in the sheets. Ralathor couldn’t help but be impressed. Young as he was, this version of Zargothrax was no less powerful than his evil counterpart, and he didn’t even know it.    
Common sense did not seem to be part of the package though.

“Don’t touch that,” Ralathor reprimanded him. With a wave of his hand, he sat him down on the bedside again and conjured a light to examine the injury. Zargothrax winced and turned his head away, but it didn’t compare to the reaction two days ago. “Still hurts?”

“Only a bit.” Ralathor wasn’t sure he imagined the bite in his voice.    
The hermit stepped back to gather himself. His view was still too intertwined with the old memories. Seeing the faces of his friends once more, so painfully normal and yet entirely foreign in their cold cruelty, had reopened wounds he had thought he’d never received. Going to Auchtermuchty had been a mistake.

“Do you think it’s healed enough that I can go?”

The question rudely ripped the hermit from his thoughts. He was not in any shape for conversation, even less than usual, and he hated it. Plus, he was getting hungry, the scent of the porridge tempting him. 

“Go where?”

The anger in young Zargothrax’ eyes worried him. Not for his resemblance to the other Zargothrax, on the contrary. This was the gaze Angus the 13th had borne, just before his untimely and honestly unnecessary death.

“Well, pardon my bluntness, but you don’t seem to like visitors and I don’t want to bother you longer than necessary.”

“So you have somewhere to go?”

The sharp remark made Zargothrax crumble a little, but the determination in his eyes didn’t flicker. “A home? No. But I know what I will do. Proletius and the Hootsman murdered my friends in cold blood. They deserve to pay and I’m the last one left to make them.”

Ralathor couldn’t stifle an incredulous laugh. This was EXACTLY like Angus. The damned, good-hearted fool. “So you’re going to- what? Face the very king of Unst? Attack the royal citadel? Battle against the knights of Crail? You’re out of your mind.”

Zargothrax shrugged. “I can’t kill all of them, but those two? Certainly. An ambush or a trick, they won’t expect that. They attacked like cowards, they die like cowards.” He turned and started to dress, his former shyness forgotten, throwing on the red robe again and clasping his woollen cloak. “I think I’ll start with Proletius, he seems to be the least protected. In case I survive the battle with the Hootsman, maybe it angers the prince enough to rush into battle personally. Thank you for your hospitality and healing me.”

He ran into the first massive shield of energy at the doorway. Ralathor’s magic was a bright blue in his magical sight, and he knew better than to try and push through.

“Do you have an actual plan, or are you just trying to kill yourself in a way that makes you look noble?”

Zargothrax turned, lips pressed into a thin line, and Ralathor felt himself instinctively power up protective wards. The boy wasn’t stronger than him, by far not, but he knew the fiery temper in his eyes far too well. 

“Does it matter? Why do you care? You don’t have any sympathy for the people of Auchtermuchty, and least of all for me.” Ralathor wanted to say something, but didn’t get the chance. “I see the way you look at me. My apologies for intruding your home, but that should be fixed the moment I leave. Whatever other issue you take with me personally or the fact I’m a student of Auchtermuchty, is - frankly - not my problem.”

Ralathor stared into space for a second, drawing an unnerving blank as to his next action. Eventually though, he powered down the shield to no more than a warning tickle, and sat down on the bed.

Strangely, the first words out of his mouth were: “Do you know what your name means?”

The question took Zargothrax aback. He’d wanted to leave, before the hermit changed his mind, but could not will his feet to move.

“I apologise for my biased treatment. You merely remind me of someone I knew very long ago,” Ralathor said. His words bore the weight of many lifetimes, dropping to the floor like blocks of lead.

“What did he do, steal your cattle?”

Ralathor smiled. That poor, good-hearted, stubborn fool. Angus had sounded just like this. No matter what, he bounced back from difficulties as if it was the easiest thing in the world, despite being so incredibly, terribly young.

“He murdered a dear friend of mine and enslaved an entire galaxy, but I suppose the cattle would be included in that.”

When he looked up, Zargothrax had gone as white as freshly fallen snow, any witty retort stifled. Ralathor sighed. “You’re the first one I ever tell this. Except good old Hoots, but he stayed back to fulfil his duty as their god...”

Ralathor took off his cloak and crossed his legs on the bed. “Sit down, I’ll tell you a little story about a foolish young prince named Angus and a dark sorcerer named Zargothrax.”

Z plopped down on the floor without ever taking his eyes off the hermit, mistrust and shock mixing with wonder.

Ralathor didn’t bother with all the universes he had seen, dear no, that would have taken a lifetime. But he told of Angus the first, the first time Ralathor himself had been thrown into the mess that would consume his existence for centuries to come. He told of the unicorn invasion of Dundee, of the monster atop an undead unicorn that had doused an entire country in flames. He told of Proletius, the heroic eagle warrior who’d been resurrected just to die again in the destruction of earth, and who’d been killed and used for evil by the very man Ralathor saw in front of him right now. And lastly, he told of Angus McFife the thirteenth, who’d been thrown into another dimension that was nothing like his home, and died for it like the selfless, stupid, mighty hero he was.

When Ralathor had finished, it was quiet in the cave for a long time.

“That’s not me.” The words quivered, arrows shot to kill and stuck in their target now. “It must be terrible seeing the same people play the same game, over and over. But I’m not like that other Zargothrax. I’m not evil.”

Ralathor didn’t answer. His mind had caught on something, just out of his mind’s eye. If he could only turn to look at it...

“If you speak the truth, Angus and I switched places in the story, but I’m not the hero they’re looking for. A hero would go and free the country, maybe heal the king, or at least try to take down the prince in a way that helps everyone. But I don’t have much left in life, so I may as well go avenge my friends. At least Proletius and the Hootsman don’t have some sort of magical ancient weapon that turns people evil.”

Ralathor shot to his feet. The glimpse had finally turned into a picture.

This dimension was unique. Of all the variations of the same tale he had seen so far, future and past, one thing had always stayed the same: the starlords’ ancient weapons. 

But this dimension was different. The Hammer of Glory didn’t serve justice in this world. Before he’d seen its power in person, he’d doubted the stories, just like he’d doubted the existence of its counterpart.

He rushed out of the room and into his work chamber, rifling through the papers he had found, but stashed away for later, assuming they were mere fairytales.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?”

Ralathor shook his head, not listening to the sorcerer the very gods he had just called upon seemed to have chosen as their champion..

“The Hammer of Glory was always a weapon for justice. It has never manipulated someone’s mind, not the way it does in this world. If your roles are switched, what if there’s an equivalent to the Knife of Evil?”

“You mean the Blade of Virtue?”

Ralathor froze and looked up, his dark hair falling in his eyes from his wild search. 

“Come again?”

Zargothrax raised an eyebrow. The deep scar crossing his features turned it into a more scornful look that he probably meant to give. “The Blade of Virtue. One of the three great artefacts. Everyone knows them, they’re a popular bedtime story. Though I doubt anyone believed they were real, until Prince Angus suddenly turned up wielding that dreaded hammer...” 

He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable under the hermit’s baffled stare. 

Ralathor didn’t find his words for quite some time, his thoughts tripping over themselves. How in the WORLD had he missed such a detail, if it was so well-known? 

...Perhaps, by spending too much time in his cave, believing himself to know the story before it had even begun.

“Tell me everything you know about it,” Ralathor commanded.

Zargothrax, though a spark of annoyance flashed in his eyes, obeyed. “It’s supposed to be a magical blade that can only be wielded by a chosen hero. It’s able to dispel any evil, whether magical or mundane. Though I’ve always wondered how you’re supposed to turn someone good by stabbing them. As far as I know that only makes people  _ dead _ .”

Ralathor leaned on his desk, a smile spreading on his face. Of course. It made absolute sense.  _ Redemption _ .

Now he just needed to talk the kid into it.

Ralathor straightened up and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. “You said you’re not like the other cunt over in the dimension I last was in, right?”

Just to make sure the message came through, Ralathor wove a rune into the air, shimmers of the final battle, the destroyed Hootsforce, the madness of the dying sorcerer, a face twisted in rage shortly before he dissolved.

Zargothrax blanched, then shook his head so his locks flew. “Never.”

“Good. If we can find this blade, maybe you can turn Proletius and the Hootsman over to our side, and-“

“Proletius’ knights slaughtered my friends, if I ever get a stab at him it will be to make sure he’s DEAD.”

In his agitation, dark red lightning had begun to glow around him. One more twitch upwards on the power scale and Ralathor’s runes would jump into action and fry the lad on the spot. That really seemed unnecessary.

“Because he’s a valuable asset,” Ralathor explained patiently. “You don’t want him to hurt anyone else, right? If he’s on our side, we can get a shot at turning the Hootsman and possibly Angus too...”

The lightning around Zargothrax died. He looked at Ralathor with an expression that the hermit only much later would realise was pity. 

“There is no  _ our _ side.”

Ralathor opened his mouth to argue, but Zargothrax waved it off. “I don’t care about this war, or whatever big finale the universe plans. I just want justice for the lives of my friends. I want to go home.” He shook his head, turning to go.

Ralathor then made a decision, maybe the worst decision of his life. He lied. He never did, usually, choosing rather to simply remain silent. But today he lied. 

“What if victory could bring them back?”

Zargothrax froze in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

“The Knife of Evil was able to resurrect the dead, possessing them with its dark energy. And you just said that the blade is able to bring people back to life as good versions of themselves.”

Zargothrax stared at him, insecurity and hope battling in his features. “By the time I get the blade - if it even exists - they’ll be too far gone. I know how necromancy works, don’t play me for a fool.”

Lie number two. “The blade is an ancient artefact of more power than you can imagine. It won’t be a problem.”

The young sorcerer’s reserve was faltering, and Ralathor played his final, terrible trump card.

“Didn’t you say you had family in Cowdenbeath? The longer you don’t turn up, the more likely it is that the Questlords or the Knights of Crail search them out. Are you powerful enough to keep them safe?”

Zargothrax’ so terribly young, terribly innocent face ran through a rapid change of emotion: realisation, shock, horror, guilt, fear, anger, desperation.    
Eventually, his shoulders sagged. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish. You didn’t need to be such a cunt about it though.”

Ralathor took the insult as semi-valid criticism. He had been brought here for a reason. Maybe for the first time, he had a chance at doing this right. He already had too much blood on his hands than to have his best shot ruined by a teenager’s grief, understandable as it may be.

“You really think I can bring them back?”

Ralathor’s face betrayed no emotion, back to his usual calm self. “Yes.”

“Alright, what do I need to do?”

_ Stronghold of the Knights of Crail, Crail _

The first day of winter, both Zargothrax and Ser Proletius spent in ways quite similar to each other, though they resided at opposite ends of the country. Brooding over papers was not a favourite activity of either though, especially if the solution seemed to slip further away with every hour.

Proletius was glad he was in Crail, truly. Staying in Dundee, the citadel even, would have turned him into a nervous wreck. The search through Auchtermuchty - the first, second AND third - had not turned up the missing dead body. They’d found scorched and torn clothes in a room with two huge basins, so it was possible their escapee had changed there. After that, nothing. With no magical practitioner to trace the sorcerer - damned be their loyalty, and pride! - , the trail had gone cold. 

Prince Angus was not happy, to say the least.

The Hootsman had departed with the proclamation he had business to attend to, and since then, Proletius had been faced with both Angus’ wrath and also the difficulties in his own ranks without the barbarian’s support. Their negligence and the death of two peasant boys had caused uproar far beyond Auchtermuchty’s walls, which hadn’t exactly helped their efforts. And if that wasn’t enough, the more…  _ uncanny _ deaths in the battle had startled the knights more than he’d expected.

He himself had seen the sorcerers’ curses dissolve a knight in maggots, the summoning of a being he could only call demonic, and many more things he didn’t get enough of a glimpse on to remember. The wound on his leg had only recently started healing at all, the flesh a dead, grey color, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that had the spell actually hit instead of merely grazing him, he would be Proletius the one-legged now.   
But still, a warrior should not let himself be scared by some dead wizards and peasants with sticks. 

Every second the knights showed hesitation, the peasants got bolder, too. The boys’ death had been their own fault - what did those fools snoop around in the knights’ business?    
Much more important was that prince Angus was breathing down his neck, while Proletius was no closer to finding the escaped wizard, and that he had to fear for a riot should he dispatch more of his knights to that dreaded city. It made him furious and no short of terrified.

Cursed peasants, cursed sorcerers, to hell with all of them!

The princess at least seemed to understand his predicament, for she kept her husband busy enough he couldn’t focus his anger on what he no doubt would consider Proletius’ personal failure. Undercover research had turned up a rather quarrelsome relationship between the Questlords of Inverness and the sorcerers.    
With them gone, Angus - led by princess Iona no doubt - had taken up negotiations with the Questlords. Their support would make future expansions child’s play. Proletius didn’t care much for the lords of unicorns, he didn’t care much for riding on land at all, but he was grateful for the few days of grace it bought him.

Proletius rubbed his face and dropped his head on the table, a bit harder than planned. He grumbled a curse, but stayed in the position, enjoying the rest the darkness brought his strained eyes. 

Instead of burning the entire damned place to the ground, they’d painstakingly identified all bodies, trying to narrow down who they were looking for. The problem was that while the magical lists were neatly organized and even sported pictures, not all of the bodies were in any shape to be identified. The explosives their eagles had dropped had done one part, whatever unholy business those wizards had been cooking up in their studies the rest. In some cases it wasn’t clear if the body parts even belonged together.    
And now he’d been here for THREE days, going over the lists again and again, trying to figure out where to even start looking. There were about a dozen bodies that could not reliably be identified. But he hadn’t been entirely without success.    
Of the names left on the list, only four seemed plausible suspects:    
Three students of the fourth form - whatever that meant - named Sylphea Isadora Muness Gideon MacIntyre and… something something McKenzie. He could not for the life of him decipher it. 

Number four was the one he wanted to focus on first. It belonged to a magister that somehow must have slipped prince Angus’ wrath. Either he’d not been in the circle they’d found those fools in, doing whatever, or he’d slipped away unnoticed.   
A sorcerer of many years, the highest in the ranks, perhaps. Someone powerful. Truly, if anyone should be able to escape the knights of Crail, then it had to be him.

Ralathor. A strange name. Not too strange for a wizard, perhaps.

The name rang a bell, though Proletius had no idea why. He’d turned it over in his head again and again, but had not gotten any closer to the solution.

He shot up as his door was opened, feeling a little guilty as to be seen sleeping. He covered it with a scowl. “Yes?”

Morgan, one of his squad leaders, blinked at him from the doorway. Proletius really didn’t want to know what he looked like to evoke such a response. “Ser, there’s a… visitor. He says his name is Sire Equestrion, of Inverness.”

Proletius brain was rudely kickstarted into attentiveness again. He got up and tried to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror without making it too obvious, leaning on the table in support. “A Questlord, here in Crail? Did he say what he wants?”

“Only that he wants to speak with you, Ser. He says he may have… information.”

That could mean anything and nothing, but keeping in mind the ongoing negotiations and the Knights’ role in vanquishing the Questlords’ proclaimed enemies… it was worth a try. 

“Thank you Morgan, bring him into the courtyard, I’ll meet him there. And get Aquilus ready, just in case I need to fly to Dundee tonight.”

“Yes, Ser Proletius.”

As Morgan marched away, Proletius saw to making himself presentable. He took off his crumpled jacket, and seeing the stains on the sleeves, deemed it a problem for later. He washed the ink stains off his hand, and subsequently face - the gods knew how they’d gotten there. Lastly, he donned his parade coat. Not the GOOD good parade coat, of course, the one for royal functions, but the one he wore when riding with the prince. He wanted to show his rank, not seem like a prick.   
He hesitated before picking up the cane he’d relied on since the battle. He’d ditch it before facing that Sire Equestrion, but in the meanwhile, it was probably better to rest his leg. The skin was still sensitive, prone to tearing should he strain too much, and the bruise would just not vanish. By now he was starting to wonder if it was a bruise at all.

Brushing a hand through his beard, he checked himself over one last time, before blowing out the lantern and leaving his chambers. The Questlords didn’t particularly like the Knights of Crail and they surely would not bother to come all this way if it wasn’t important. Whoever this Sire Equestrion was, Proletius was more than curious what he had to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #FuckTheQuestlords but Sire Equestrion in particular :)  
This chapter is for LadyTroll/ uuppiic since she spurred me to this point. Thanks for being a sweetheart!


	10. Quest for the Blade of Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Z has a goal in mind, but the way is not without peril...

Zargothrax kicked a stone, grumbling under his breath. Unfortunately, said stone would not let itself be kicked away, most of it residing deep in the earth. His stride abruptly stopped, Zargothrax nearly landed on his face, in addition to pain shooting through his toe.    
He cursed, taking a moment to rub his aching foot. He wished Sorcha was here, but when he’d finally decided to hit the road again, starting his new quest, the unicorn was nowhere to be found. Maybe this was her way of reminding him that he was not her master. 

“ _ Just go west _ , he said,” the sorcerer sneered, imitating the hermit. “ _ You’ll find it _ , he said.” Muttering to himself, he continued his walk, trying to enjoy the cold air as much as he could. Staying underground for so long, while being safe was relieving, was just not a life he was adapted to, or wanted to lead. The hermit did not understand, though he had not said so out loud. His gazes at his guest’s - or prisoner’s? - comments had been telling enough.   
The injuries he’d suffered during the attack on his home had healed up in the first few days, after which he’d been tasked with more or less keeping the shelves stocked while Ralathor dug through an ungodly amount of scrolls, trying to figure out where they would find the Blade of Virtue. 

It was work to keep him busy, Zargothrax knew, and he did it vigorously, for every time he settled down, the memories came back. He’d already tried to purge all his plans and hopes - none of which would ever come true now - from his brain, but it didn’t work very well.    
He missed his friends so much even thinking about them made his chest clench up.   
He missed Gideon’s loud voice, his giddiness and ideas, Jelisia’s annoyed eye rolls and her rare smiles, Sylphea’s hugs and fierce bravery. He missed his parents, who he’d last seen in spring, and might never return to lest he put them in danger by his mere presence. Gods, he even missed Soriel, who was more of a tolerated acquaintance than a friend due to his sometimes a bit too mean comments, and Aleco who never shared his notes or booze with anyone.   
Ralathor was not much of a companion, spending his days digging into his research, only looking up to give orders or prepare a meal or potion.   
Zargothrax was terribly lonely. 

In his sleep, he’d seen his friends die, over and over, being torn apart and violated by the knights pouring into the town, impaled by swords and arrows, snatched by the eagles -    
until in the end, Ralathor had given him a potion that suppressed dreams entirely. Whether it was out of sympathy, or because Zargothrax disturbed his sleep with his cries, he did not know.

Ralathor made good use of his guest, sending him into town with the task of not only investigating, but also practising his transfigurations and controlling the spectacles. Ralathor had put in some work and transformed the glasses both mechanically and magically. He’d reinforced the protective spells and added some more to help Zargothrax make the best use of his one remaining eye. The damage in his nerves however, even the hermit had not been able to fix completely, though not for lack of trying.

Zargothrax threw his hood back to stare at the sky, flicking his wrist to have his glasses zoom in on a passing bird. Not an eagle. Just a random swallow.    
People had stopped talking, and apparently, the knights of Crail had stopped asking. It was no reason to become careless, as Ralathor had reminded him about a billion times, but relieving nonetheless. 

He drew his cloak tighter around himself as the wind dug sharp claws into the fabric. Dark clouds hung on the horizon, promising snow, or even worse, sleet. If that happened, he may as well hole up in a cave somewhere, because without a horse, there was no damn way he could get through the highlands on muddy roads. And in that case, any chance he might have to get the Blade, and possibly save his friends, was gone for good.

Not that his chances were very high in the first place. He’d been walking for about a week, with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him, and with every passing day, his hopes had dwindled, first turning into rage, then into defeat.    
Maybe this other version of himself had seen necromancy as the perfect solution, but Zargothrax knew its limitations too well. Even  _ if  _ he could find their bodies, if they were in good shape, resurrecting them would not return them to him. Necromancy imitated life, it didn’t create it. After a certain time had passed, there was no true salvation for the dead. Resurrected corpses were just that - corpses under control of a sorcerer, without a mind or soul.

In that case, he’d rather have them remain dead.

Out alone, he’d cried a lot the first few days, but eventually there was nothing left to cry about. Either he found the Blade and succeeded in turning or killing the monsters that had destroyed his life and could return home to Cowdenbeath - or died trying. Either way, the journey would end, and his torment with it.

Winter days were short, and he knew he’d have to find shelter soon. The spells he’d embroidered in his robe and cloak kept him warm, but he didn’t feel like facing whatever was brewing in the clouds rapidly advancing upon the landscape from north. Loch Rannoch lay ahead, an area surrounded by deep forests covering the hills.    
The woods provided ample cover from the elements and the first thing he took to was setting some traps to catch himself a rabbit or other small animal. The trees were perfect for setting sling traps and he didn’t even need magic to set them, having learned a variety of knots early on. He’d often cursed growing up in a non-magical community, but it had its advantages.

He chose a sheltered spot for his fire, against a stone wall that would shield him from curious eyes in the forest, and cast a veil that would hide the light from outsiders. The fire was heavenly, a pleasant warmth against the cold night air, the smell of burning wood reminding him of the bonfires in May. 

Zargothrax dropped his head onto his knees with a sigh. Back at the memories again.    
He’d wanted to ask Jelisia to dance, or Gideon, but at the last moment, his courage had given out. He could never have matched their grace, the children of nymphs being far more beautiful than any human. So he’d danced with Sylphea instead and had made the night another sort of memory. He still remembered Sylphea’s strong hands in his, whirling around in the warm glow together to the sound of the chorus of mages around them. That night, he’d finally realized how much he loved her - not in a romantic sense, not in a way others thought boys and girls should love - but as his best friend, his sister, his family.    
They’d danced all night, Sylph picking him up with ease when she thought it fitting the dance, and after that they’d huddled around the fire and shared food and drink, watching the stars and listening to the stories being told.

Zargothrax was startled from his thoughts by a scream and the unmistakable sound of his trap springing, rope cutting over wood, throwing leaves everywhere. 

He dimmed the fire a bit and got up, taking up the dagger Ralathor had provided him with. He didn’t like killing, on the contrary - he’d become a necromancer to save lives. But his growling stomach quenched any qualms.    
He listened intently to locate which trap had sprung, and snuck forward, not wanting to scare the poor animal. There it was, his sling dangling about two feet off the ground - and entirely empty.    
Zargothrax blinked at the trap, wavering between frustration and confusion. He’d heard the animal squeak, and the sound of the trap wrapping around a target.    
“Well, well, well, who have we here? You’re quite evasive, little one.”

The ground seemed to drop out under his feet, plunging him into darkness much deeper than any earthly night. Zargothrax stared blankly ahead, unable to will his feet to move. It would have been pointless, right?

When nothing happened for several seconds, however, the paralysis subsided, leaving only his galloping heartbeat. He looked around, but the immediate area seemed entirely empty.    
He wanted nothing more but to run in the opposite direction, but not knowing what awaited him would get him killed faster than if he at least checked. He cast an invisibility spell - praying his lack of practise wouldn’t make it fail at the worst possible moment - and slowly advanced upon the source of the voice.

The first figure he spotted was that of a horse - a regular horse, that was, not a unicorn. It was tied to a nearby tree and grazed calmly, here and there pricking up its ears as if to listen, but overall seeming bored and ready to fall asleep where it stood.   
In the shine of a torch, a tiny figure dangled from a snare - though a snare Zargothrax had not cast himself. The rope was thicker, small thorns woven into the strands that glimmered in the torchlight. The figure had curled up as much as it could against the pull of gravity, digging its claws into the rope to keep it from tearing into its skin. The big, sail-like ears were pressed back like those of a scared cat.

“I not done nothing to you!”, the goblin whimpered. “Let go!”

The Hootsman paced around the figure, despite the cold merely wrapped in his fur-studded leather armour, leaving his arms and chest bare. He chuckled.   
“Oh, no, not at all. But your kind has been much trouble for me.” He swung the torch closer to the goblin, the flame licking at the creature’s dense fur. It screamed and tried to swing away, but the thorns set into the rope turned every movement into an act of self-mutilation.   
“And more importantly, you know these parts. I’m… a visitor, so to speak, not from the area.”    
The goblin stared at him, huge ruby eyes glowing in the darkness. “What you want me?”   
“I’m looking for someone. Well, two someones. One is a sorcerer. You see, we’ve been looking for him all over and I just  _ had  _ to draw the shortest straw and get this area. Not much impressed, to be honest. Just woods, and a lake and…” He shrugged towards the mountain peaks. “Whatever that is.”   
“Fire hill,” the goblin squeaked. “Much danger.”   
The Hootsman shrugged. “Sure. So, I thought, why not combine the necessary with the useful? Your kind knows this area. If the wizard passed through, your king will surely be informed, yes? I’ve been  _ dying  _ to meet the goblin king for decades.”

The goblin stared at him, horror dawning on its tiny scrunched face. “No! King safe! Can’t go there!”

The Hootsman cocked his head, an innocent little smile on his bearded face. “Alright then.”   
He dropped the torch, alighting the campfire he’d built under it. The goblin whimpered, trying to crawl up the rope to escape the flames, but slipping again and again. 

The Hootsman spread a cloak on the ground as a blanket and retrieved one of the saddle bags from his steed, taking out a bottle, some sandwiches and a drinking horn before plopping down on the blanket. “Since you little ones are so shy, I suppose the next entrance to your tunnels can’t be that far. Tell me when you’re ready to bring me there.”

The fire would not kill the goblin quickly, merely singeing it whenever it slipped off the ropes that tore into its hands. At some point, it would become too exhausted to keep up the game and either talk or perish. The Hootsman seemed to be willing to accept both, for he paid no attention to his prisoner any longer, indulging in his meal and whatever alcoholic drink he’d brought. 

Zargothrax slowly backtracked, leaving behind the fire and returning to his own campsite that was decidedly too close to the Hootsman’s. 

He’d sworn to himself to kill him - admittedly, not so soon, but kill him nonetheless. Or, if Ralathor was to decide, use the Blade of Virtue to turn him over to their side.    
But now that he’d seen the Hootsman up close, Zargothrax knew that he couldn’t. One gaze from those cold blue eyes and he’d freeze up in raw terror. Even if he did manage to surprise him, the barbarian wouldn’t need his battle axe to kill him. He’d just break the sorcerer apart with his bare hands.    
Zargothrax was not a warrior. He was a necromancer gods damn it! But knowing that didn’t help his feeling of failure.

Figuring the Hootsman was clearly busy with his meal and the poor goblin, Zargothrax drowned his emotions in the dinner he had at hand and eventually packed up his camp, extinguishing the fire and storing its warmth under his cloak. He sure as hell would not sleep that close to an unpredictable beast that was out for his blood.

Turning to go, he stared down at the dagger in his belt. It wasn’t much, not enchanted, not even particularly fancy. But the blade was ten inches long and sharp enough to cut a leaf in the air.    
If anything, he could go check on the goblin. Their kind was sometimes pesky, universally hated, even, but his own rare encounters with the small creatures had always been pleasant or at least neutral.    
And even if it was wicked, nobody deserves being cooked alive by a cruel barbarian.   
Cursing his overly loud conscience, Zargothrax turned back, rekindling his invisibility charm. Thanks to being able to browse Ralathor’s extensive library, the spell did not drain his magic as much as it would have without the tricks he’d dug up in the scrolls. If need be, he could keep it running for days. He sincerely hoped that would not be necessary.

The Hootsman’s camp had fallen silent in the time Zargothrax had been away. The fire had burned down a bit, giving the goblin some room to breathe. It had dug its claws into the rope, possibly simply having its muscles cramp up and freeze in the position, despite the blood dripping from its hands. It did not move anymore. The Hootsman had stretched out on his blanket, snoring loudly, next to two bottles that smelled like an entire wine cellar had been condensed into them. 

Zargothrax snuck closer, making sure to not accidentally tread on a dry branch. A silence charm would be nice now, but he’d missed that class in favor of going to the solstice market with Aleco and Jelisia, and since it wasn’t part of the exam never bothered catching up.   
  
Where to? Kill the Hootsman first? Or free the goblin? It might scream and wake the Hootsman, but on the other hand, was it right to leave it in this torturous situation longer than necessary?

“Who are you?”   
Zargothrax nearly took to running for his life right there, but instead froze in position, disbelief battling fear. The goblin stared at him, its huge ruby eyes glimmering with curiosity even in its unfortunate situation.    
“You can see me?”, Zargothrax whispered. The goblin nodded. Well, that decided it. Zargothrax stepped over the branches surrounding the fire, carefully grabbed the rope - grateful for the sturdy leather gloves Ralathor had provided him with - and cut it with a swift swing of his knife.   
The goblin threw itself at him. Its claws dug into his cloak, the momentum of even this tiny body too much on the soft ground, and they both crashed into the leaves.

The Hootsman grumbled, his eyes fluttering open. Zargothrax froze, not even close to getting on his feet again.  _ Shit. _ This was it. Cast a working spell or die.   
The Hootsman’s horse neighed, pawing the earth.   
“Stop that!”, the Hootsman barked, throwing a stick in the direction of the horse. “Some people want to sleep.” He looked around, squinting against the fire’s light. “Oi, you still alive, little gremlin?”

Zargothrax held the goblin’s mouth shut. It dug its teeth into his fingers, thrashing wildly, but he held on, desperately hoping that his spell covered them both.    
“Guess not. Pity.” The Hootsman scratched his beard, and laid down again. “Eh, as if that kid is gonna come through here anyway…” His mumbling trailing off, the barbarian resumed snoring within the minute. Slowly, Zargothrax released the goblin, praying he was gonna stay quiet. The little creature stared at him, then scuttled away limping, not looking back.

_ A thank you would have been nice. _

Zargothrax got up, trying to keep quiet while simultaneously fighting against the array of thistles and nettles that had crept on and even under his cloak and rubbing his aching hand. The horse stared at his general direction, as if it was angry at the unseen force for making it the target of its master’s wrath. Or maybe, it could see him, just like the goblin.    
Spells should have disclaimers, he thought.   
“ _ Warning: Does not work on goblins, horses, unicorns and gigantic eagles _ ” or something similar. 

The Hootsman was once more snoring peacefully, his long hair spread out over the cloak, not seeming to feel the cold air on his bare chest. Zargothrax stared down at the knife in his hands. He could feel his heart beating in his temples, his clothes suddenly feeling too hot on him, yet he was trembling like he was freezing.   
Could he do it?

He was not a killer. Not like that other version of himself. He’d never taken a life - not on purpose, and never a human’s.   
But if he didn’t even try, he’d never forgive himself. It was an act of justice.   
Even with his mind wrapped in a numbing cloud of anxiety, he remembered to check the area for magic. The Hootsman’s armour  _ was _ magical - though the spells were faded, by far not as powerful as they’d been long ago. One of them served to keep him warm at all times, which explained a lot. The other one was harder to decipher - an arrow deflection charm. Well, he wouldn’t use an arrow. 

Zargothrax took a deep breath and knelt down next to the barbarian, keeping one foot flat on the ground to steady himself. Or in case he needed to get away fast.    
He gripped the blade with both hands, looking for the perfect spot. His studies had included extensive lessons on anatomy, though the models and his friends had been a little easier to read than a muscle-packed barbarian. He needed to hit the center of the heart. Even grazing the ribs would take too much momentum out of the blow.    
He raised the knife, hands trembling.

Now or never. 

“Not! He dangerous!” Something collided with him from behind, at the same time a hand closed around his throat. Tiny claws tore at his cloak, before abruptly vanishing as his head collided with the luckily soft forest floor. His vision went black for a moment, his invisibility spell failing nigh instantly.

The Hootsman mustered him, his eyebrows furrowing. “Well would you look at that! Proletius should have told me we’re dealing with an old acquaintance!” He picked the sorcerer up by his throat, as if he weighed nothing at all. “I can’t believe you fell for that. I should consider an acting career.”

At this rate, his head would detach from his body any moment. Zargothrax tried to at least hold on to the log-like arm, to take pressure off his neck, but the Hootsman simply flicked them away. “Poor Ser P will bite his own arse when he hears who our escapee is. You really did look dead.” He chuckled. “Oh well. Not my problem.”

Zargothrax tried to kick him, only to be slammed against the next tree as casually as you’d swat a fly. Stars exploded in front of his eyes, a dull ringing sound filling the darkness.    
“Stop struggling,” the Hootsman commanded in an almost bored tone. He may as well have said “Bit chilly today, isn’t it?”.    
Zargothrax kept struggling. He writhed and kicked, tried to throw a spell at him, but in his panic, the magic just sizzled out between his fingers. This was exactly what Sylphea had warned him of so many times. Fear was an entirely normal emotion in deathly peril. But never let it get a hold on you, for then it would kill. 

He heard the Hootsman sigh, and then the crack of something that sounded like a thick, wet branch.  _ Oh _ , he thought absently.  _ That’s not good. _

The pain ate through his arm like liquid fire. He tried to push back, but his wrist would not move - or rather moved in a way that it should not. He screamed, only to be forcefully shut down when the hand around his throat tightened, taking his breath.

Zargothrax blinked tears from his eyes, taking in the mixture of boredom and annoyance on the barbarian’s face, as if he’d been left waiting at a scheduled appointment.    
“I’ll bring you back to Dundee now,” the Hootsman informed him calmly. “Every time you go on my nerves, I’ll break another bone in your body. The prince said he wants you alive, he didn’t say in one piece. Understood?”

Zargothrax nodded, desperately trying to loosen the fingers around his throat with his uninjured hand. Black dots danced in front of his eyes. If this went on any longer, the Hootsman may just deliver a mostly intact, but dead prisoner instead. 

A pathetic end, really. Tricked like a fool and outmaneuvered by a barbarian without magical powers of his own. Whatever Ralathor had hoped for, this was not it.

He was no hero. He was no warrior.

He was, however, called the scourge of Auchtermuchty, the bane of Cowdenbeath, and a few much less epic sounding names. (Annoying cunt being one of them.)    
A scourge that had dated a herbalist before.

He aimed for the closest target and poured his magic into the first transfiguration that came to his mind. The tangle of leaves wrapped around the tree he was being held against shuffled, and then suddenly dropped.

“What in the-” 

The Hootsman tried to swat the aggressive plant away with one hand. Zargothrax tried to loosen the hand around his neck, not too keen on coming in contact with the ivy himself, but the Hootsman simply spun and nailed him against another tree.   
The barbarian cursed as a shower of pinecones rained down on them, without Zargothrax having anything to do with it, at that. He was busy enough trying to keep up a shield to not end like a needle cushion. The Hootsman was not as lucky.    
“Alright, enough of this.” His free hand took a hold of Zargothrax’ already tender right arm, twisting it brutally until the bones creaked.    
Zargothrax screamed, the spell he’d been preparing erased by the agony burning through his nerves. “I’ve warned you, little one. Don’t make this harder for yourself.”   
The Hootsman was far bigger and heavier than the sorcerer. An attack was pointless. Maybe for that reason he didn’t expect Zargothrax to kick him in the gut for all he was worth.    
The sudden blow made the barbarian lose his grip and stagger back, dropping his victim.   
Zargothrax managed to roll over to cover of thistles and branches, preferring a few bruises over igniting the fire in his injured arm.    
He scrambled to his feet, looking for the best escape route. He narrowly avoided the hand grasping for him by diving into a bush of thistles.The plants tore at his cloak and skin, not willing to let him go. He poured magic into the ground, trying to get a reaction from the flora, but this far in winter, the plants were sluggish at best, dead at worst.   
The Hootsman picked him up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten, his laughter sounding more invigorated than tired despite his heaving breaths. 

“Not bad. Not bad at all. I’ve had less entertaining fights.”

He dragged Zargothrax back to his horse, not even acknowledging the kicking and writhing sorcerer, casually swatting away the last vines trying to attack him as the magic vivifying them faded and they dropped to the cold, uncaring ground. Zargothrax tried to kick the Hootsman’s ankles. His reward was a kick to his leg that let red lights dance in front of his eyes. He heard the crack more than he felt it, too busy with the sudden violent illness gripping his stomach.

“Just making sure you don’t try to run anymore.”

“Don’t need run. Many more legs!”

“What?”

The roar of a hundred tiny throats shook the trees, and suddenly the forest was filled with shadows, growling, hissing, screaming. They came at the Hootsman in a black wave, clinging to his hair, beard, armour. He dropped the sorcerer unceremoniously, whose survival instincts were the only things keeping him going. Somehow, he got to his feet. His hip hurt terribly, but he could still walk - or rather limp, which he did, as fast as he could, in the opposite direction.   
The Hootsman roared, trying to grip his battle axe. A few clawed hands made sure the axe moved away from its owner instead of towards him, even as they were flung left and right, not few howling in pain.

“Make magic, magic man! Help us!”   
The goblin from before was back, emerging from the horde of his friends to tear at Zargothrax’ cloak. The tiny creature pointed frantically at the Hootsman, who was busy ripping goblin after goblin off himself, just to have the fallen replaced with another one.    
_ Make magic, kitten. Your mother will be so proud. _ _   
_   
“Everyone back!”, Zargothrax shouted. To his own surprise, instead of breaking, his voice turned into a deep bellow, the shout of a commander. The goblins obeyed immediately, scuttling out of the way, leaving only a dirty, ruffled, scratched up, and  _ very angry _ Hootsman standing in a mass of lifeless bodies.   
Zargothrax summoned his power, vibrant turquoise light dancing around his fingertips as he drank deep from the energy rushing through his veins, clearing the aches that fogged his mind, and unleashed it onto the battlefield.

Necromancy relied heavily on rituals, but he’d executed enough spells in ways they were not supposed to be done - on purpose and accidentally - to compensate for the spell’s instability without having to think about it. 

_ “Surge eum, cecidit amicis, unguibus et dentibus illius ruminandum defendit obvius, nam rex gloriae cobali Fifae. _ ” 

“What in the-” The Hootsman dove for his axe, but the goblins were faster, carrying it away on a myriad of tiny legs. Dozens of goblins had fallen, their small frames just not built to withstand the brutal force of the barbarian’s swings. Those same goblins now struggled to their feet - and lunged. The Hootsman went down, swearing up a storm as he tumbled right into the wall of thistles that had sprouted under him.

A normal knight may have perished under the assault of undead goblins. But this was no normal knight. This was the barbarian warrior of Unst. He’d not simply die.    
He would, however, suffer the humiliation he deserved.

With a wave of his hand, Zargothrax undid the knot tying the horse’s reins to the branch. The horse looked at him, huffed, and then took off, glad to leave the turmoil behind.    
And just to add insult to injury - though it was the least of what the Hootsman deserved - he also made his boots disappear, leaving him barefooted in a sea of thorns. 

_ Have fun going home now, bastard. _   
“Can you get me out of here?”, Zargothrax asked the goblin still attached to his robe. The tiny creature stared at him, then let out a high-pitched whine.    
Before he could finish the next thought, he was swooped up by hundreds of hands and rushed through the trees. Even his bag - that he’d dropped at some point, though he did not remember when - was carried along until he could wrap his arms around it. 

The Hootsman’s roars and curses faded away in the distance as they rushed through the trees towards an unknown destination. He didn’t have time to ask, for suddenly, a portal of deepest black opened right in front of him, and he was cast into darkness. 


	11. The Goblin King of Loch Rannoch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wizard needs a break, and finds new friends.

“Where are we going?” Zargothrax tried to make out something - anything - but despite the flame in his hand, anything past his knees was a black void. The goblins carried him along, cheerfully chattering in their own language. Being adapted to darkness, the light probably hurt their eyes, but he could not bring himself to extinguish it, too afraid where his mind would go once this feeble remainder of comfort had vanished from his hands.    
The corridor was larger than he’d expected by the size of the goblins, most of which did not come up to his waist. Roots and stones stuck out from the ceiling on occasion but if he laid down and simply let the goblins carry him, he did not even come close to hitting his head. 

He did not understand the goblins’ language, nor did they use intonations the same way humans did, so he was painfully alone with his thoughts. It gave him more than enough time to deal with the adrenaline crash after the battle with the Hootsman and the tremors that came with it. When the paralysing anxiety had faded, he could run the situation through once more.

He’d liked the way his voice had sounded there, at the end.    
He’d not been scared in that moment, not even angry. A sudden calm had washed over him, his magic shining brighter than ever, and he’d been able to orchestrate the battlefield like it had never been difficult. 

He’d been happy.   
He’d been powerful. 

He tapped into that feeling of power, willing it to take over while he tended to his injured hand. The Hootsman was a lot smarter than people claimed, misled by his wild looks. He’d targeted the right hand, the dominant spellcasting hand for most sorcerers. He could not have known that Zargothrax was left-handed.   
  
Luck was on his side. It was a clean break, nothing that needed special methods to fix. Jelisia hadn’t needed more than a month to understand that he would be a regular customer, his experiments backfiring more often than they succeeded. He attended her lessons gladly, grateful for every minute he could spend alone with her, and became perhaps the first necromancer who could prevent people from dying in the first place.   
He rested his injured hand on the bag he’d cradled the entire way and carefully let energy flow into the injury. Attaching the bones only took a second, but mending the break itself wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It was not pain per se, more of a dull ache, like the pull of gravity itself combined with an absolutely maddening itching sensation. He had to grit his teeth to stick through it without cussing out loud and maybe scaring the goblins. But at last, it was done. Now he could focus on mending the strained tissue and strengthening the bone so it would not be sensitive to weather swings and other influences - something Jelisia declared to separate  _ good _ from  _ great _ healers. 

Wrapped up in trying to fix his hand, he didn’t immediately notice the light seeping into the blackness. Far away, torchlight stretched shy fingers into the corridor, illuminating earthen walls that were soon replaced by stone before the corridor ended abruptly and opened into a cavern so massive it took his breath.    
Truly, it would not have to shy comparison to the legendary mines of the dwarfs from Aberdeen (Zargothrax had not seen it with his own eyes, naturally, but he had heard countless stories as a child and a quite clear idea of what they had to look like).    
A gust of wind swept back his hood, rushing under his hair. Ventilation tunnels lined the high walls, ensuring proper air circulation, only a faint odor of dust remaining. The hall was lit by torches and glowing crystals, illuminating ancient ornaments cut into the stone. Ladders made of rope and wood, but also metal rods and a variety of other materials, covered the steep walls, tiny figures scuttling up and down the construction at breakneck speed.

The goblins carrying him took a sharp turn as not to tumble down into the bottomless pit in front of them, instead rushing down a winding path glued to the side of the crater, that made up in length what it lacked in breadth. Zargothrax, while not being afraid of heights in general, took one look down the abyss just inches from him, closed his eyes and prayed.    
The goblins seemed steady enough on their many feet, but as they rushed over the serpentine turns, they still came terrifyingly close to the ledge many times.

With his eyes closed, he did not notice they’d left the hall before a weight landed on his chest, making him squeak in surprise. A goblin squatted on him, its ruby eyes sparkling, the mouth with razor-sharp teeth split in a grin.   
“Nearly there!”, it chirped. It had to be the goblin he’d saved from the Hootsman, judging from the dried blood in its fur.    
“Nearly where?”, Zargothrax asked. The hall they were crossing was much smaller, riddled with holes that reached up to the ceiling, connecting various tunnels and caverns. A cool wind was blowing from high up, where a small spotlight indicated an opening to the outside.

“The king!”, the goblin informed him gladly.

Oh.

Zargothrax had to clear his throat to get the next sentence out. Maybe this had been a bit too much stress after all. “So, uh… that’s nice and all, but I really need to be on my way if I want to reach Ben Nevis before the snow comes down-”

“King will thhhhank you! You is nice! What is name?”

He hesitated. Goblins were not the fae but without proper sentence structure it was hard to nail down the magical technicalities of giving his name. Then again, he did have a middle name for that specific purpose.    
“My name is Zargothrax.” 

The goblin frowned. “Zargo-” The rest came out as a strained hiss. The goblin tried, but it did not seem possible for him to pronounce it. He slumped, falling backwards into Zargothrax’ lap. It blinked up at him and cocked its head, the big ears flopping back sadly.    
“...Zargo?”, it asked with a hopeful nudge against his chest.

He couldn’t suppress a smile. “Zargo it is then. What’s your name?”

The goblin puffed out its chest. “Arivintaebriedorkuraz Chehdeard!”, it proclaimed proudly. “Heir to Srokormalebsozkunielsix.” 

Zargothrax blinked. And he’d thought his name was a nuisance to pronounce. “...May I call you Ari?”

The goblin looked about as confused as Zargothrax felt. “Why? Is easy name.”

“I mean no offense, but I’m afraid us humans have other ideas of what is considered difficult…” He feared the goblin would have him try and pronounce that salad of letters their kind considered names, but it merely shrugged its shoulders. “Ari then.”

The change in the rush of air told of a new cavern. The goblins came to an abrupt halt - and then dropped him. He landed on his behind with a startled huff as the goblins disbanded, skittering in all directions.   
The goblin on his chest - Ari - had to dig its claws into his stomach to catch the impact. Zargothrax sat stunned for a moment, internally grumbling about his already battered backside and trying to analyze his surroundings.    
The hall was lit by multicolored crystals giving off a pleasant, not too bright light that doused the stone in liquid rainbows. A line of crystals led up to a staircase, though the steps were a bit smaller than in the overworld, fitting the goblins’ shorter legs. The staircase ended in a tunnel that led… somewhere. He had no idea where he was, or how he’d get to the surface.    
Thinking about it like that made this a lot less wonderous an experience.

Ari jumped off of him - thank the Gods, really - and tugged at his sleeve. “Come! Must see king!”

“Okay, okay, hold up!” Zargothrax heaved himself on his feet, slightly dizzy from the entire ordeal and feeling the countless bruises he’d not been able to treat yet. And most of all, he was tired. He’d walked all day, exerted his magic against the Hootsman of all people - the  _ Hootsman! _ He could hardly believe he’d  _ survived _ , let alone  _ defeated  _ him, even temporarily - and had to heal a broken bone, something he’d never done without supervision before.    
At this point, he was ready to sleep on any vaguely vertical surface.

But alas, there was more to see and do before he could rest. Ari led him to the staircase, which proved tedious to walk on his much longer and by now pretty damn sore legs.   
“Hey, uh, sorry if this is a rude question, but the tunnels are… really big for your people aren’t they? I thought goblins were bigger.”

“Tunnels older than us,” Ari explained cheerfully. “Mountain goblins always small. But tunnels big when we come.”

“Who built them, then?”

“Big snake.” He waited for Ari to elaborate, but the goblin just skittered along next to him, nothing betraying if the question had troubled it.    
Scotland didn’t have that many snakes, let alone big ones. What in the-

Ari chirped something in what Zargothrax assumed was the goblin’s language - or one of them, assuming their languages worked like human languages did - and rushed forward, disappearing behind a large stone.    
Zargothrax stopped, looking around. The cavern wasn’t spectacular - there were a few rugs lining the walls, illuminated by the glowing crystals, but mostly it seemed to be used as a corridor. 

_ Boom. Boom. Boom. _

Zargothrax took an instinctive step back, one hand around his bag, the other ready to fill with magic in case he needed to throw a spell. The deep, repetitive rumbling barely resembled steps, had it not been for the slight shuffling noise accompanying it.    
The being coming towards him had to be  _ huge _ . Goblins could get a lot bigger than Ari and his friends, but how large?

_ Boom. Boom. _

He gulped and prepared a spell, unsure where to aim in the first place.    
Where would he even run to? He was hopelessly lost under the mountain. 

“No be scared!”

Zargothrax nearly fried the goblin where he stood, only at the last second blocking the spell before it could unload unto the tiny creature that had jumped out behind a rock.

A deep, mellow voice answered. Zargothrax thought to make out Ari’s full name, but other than that, the words were gibberish to his ears.

The goblin king was tiny. Well, tiny in human standards. In goblin standards, he still towered over his subjects by a good foot. He was cloaked in a deep blue tunic embroidered with unknown runes, but his clawed feet were bare. He leaned on a wooden staff, clearly the source of the intimidating noise.    
His fur was greyed at the cheeks, and the tip of his left ear missing, but his face was wise, in a way no human could understand. He leaned on the staff, clawed hands tracing the runes cut into the ancient wood, and regarded the visitor with an unreadable gaze.

“Welcome, traveller,” he said. “My child tells me you saved his life from a wild, evil man known as the Hootsman. For that, you have my thanks.”

“Ari is… a prince?” Why that was his first question, even Zargothrax did not know.

The goblin king chuckled, waving him over with his free hand. Only when Zargothrax had caught up - hesitating at first, but aware he did not have much of a choice - did he continue.

“Not in the way your people say it. Ari, as you call her, is my child as all the other are, regardless of who brought them into this world.”

“I see.”

The goblin king was quiet for a while, leaning on his walking stick.    
“We goblins do not spend much time on the surface,” he said. “Your people do not like us, those with special powers as those without them.” He absently rubbed his shoulder. “Why did you save him?”

“It was the right thing to do,” Zargothrax answered truthfully. “I… have my own issues to take up with the Hootsman, but just leaving him there would have been wrong.”

The goblin king was silent once more. His clawed finger followed a rune cut into his staff. Then he nodded. “A good answer.” He resumed walking, following a corridor deeper into the bowels of the earth, still lit by the glowing crystals. “May I assume it has to do with that injury you hide behind these… what are they called again?” He said a word, or rather uttered a combination of syllables that should be impossible to pronounce.

“Spectacles?,” Zargothrax offered helpfully. 

“Ah yes. Spectacles.” The word came out with a slightly skewed intonation, but recognizable at least.

Zargothrax ran his hands over his by now battered and dirty robe, wondering where to even start. “I… He killed my friends. Or at least he helped the knights of Crail do it. I don’t really care. I hope he falls into a bog.” He sighed. “I beg your pardon, your majesty, but how come you speak my language so well?”

“In the old days, goblins and humans shared much closer bonds,” the king explained. His eyes were set on a spot far in the distance. Only now Zargothrax realized the milky blue was not his eye color, but most likely a cataract. 

The goblin king was blind. The stick was not a walking aid like he’d thought, but a source of information, using the echo between the walls to navigate.

“But that was long ago,” the king continued. “Today, your kind and my kind… we do not get along all too well. I try to teach my children the language, in the hopes of one day renewing friendship to the people over ground, but it is not an easy feat, your tongue.”

“Neither is your language,” Zargothrax responded.   
  


The goblin king nodded. “Indeed. But enough pleasantries. I hear you want to get to Ben Neval. There are tunnels leading there from our kingdom, though my kind has not walked them in a very long time. But we will speak of this later.”

They left the tunnel, heading for a bigger cave that branched into many smaller rooms. So small, in fact, Zargothrax had to duck to not hit his head on the ceiling when the goblin king showed him into one of the chambers on the right. Nothing but a candle illuminated the room. Most of the space was taken up by a mattress of a variety of soft materials.    
It was way too small for him, but the room was pleasantly warm and smelled of dried flowers that had been mixed into the bedding.   
“Please rest first. It must have been a tiring day.”

“You can’t even imagine..” Should he be suspicious? Probably.    
But by the Gods, he was exhausted. After a week of only taking short naps in whatever shelter he could find on the road, even this simple and strange room may as well have been the royal bedroom. 

He remembered to bow politely before the goblin king, who then left him alone in the chamber, where Zargothrax crashed down on the bed, threw his cloak over himself as a blanket, and passed out before the fabric had settled.

…

The goblins were, for lack of a better word, delightful creatures. After what Ari informed him had been a little nap of 18 hours, it took him a while to even remember where he was and how it had come to pass that he was woken by a three foot goblin poking his face. When he was sufficiently awake, Ari insisted on showing him around in the caverns, starting with what by human standards was a toilet.    
As stories went, goblins were filthy little creatures, but every goblin he encountered that was not currently working on something producing dirt wore sometimes a little tattered, but neat clothes of various cuts and had their fur brushed and shining. There was a river flowing under the colony, that had been branched and redirected by dams that resembled the dwarven architecture Soriel had done a project about last year.

The air grew warmer as they walked, and soon Zargothrax saw no other way than to take his cloak off to prevent heatstroke. Mist thickened to steam and he had to take his glasses off to see where he set foot. They stopped in front of a basin he could barely make out, only the gurgle of a stream announcing its presence. 

“What is that?”, he asked.

Ari gave him a look that could only be translated to “Were you raised in a barn?”   
“Bath,” the goblin explained patiently. “Go in!”

“...Oh.” He hesitated, but with the goblin’s expectant eyes on him didn’t have much of a choice. He was at their mercy, and even though they seemed pleasant hosts, he thought it better not to offend them. He dipped one hand into the water. It wasn’t as hot as he’d feared. He went over an internal map. Wasn’t Schiehallion near Loch Rannoch? The volcano had to heat up the water from the lake, creating a natural bathtub that never got cold.    
Whoever had dug those tunnels before the goblins moved in, they’d had good taste.

He took off his glasses and stashed them with his cloak and bag near the entrance so they wouldn’t get any wetter than they already were. Next came the belt and boots. The stone was pleasantly warm under his bare feet. Only then, he became aware Ari was still sitting in the mist, watching him curiously.

“Uhm, Ari?”

“Yes Zargo?”

“Can you turn around?”

The goblin cocked his head. “Why?”

“Because I don’t- Uhm, we humans usually don’t take off our clothes in front of people unless we really like them.”

Ari frowned. “Why take off? Is much faster like this.”

“What do you mea- ARGH!” 

The water was no more forgiving than a dragon’s breath, especially when dumped into it head-first. Darkness enclosed him, a heavy weight dragging him down into the depths. His robe had suddenly become a swirling net ready for whatever prey may entangle itself in it, which would surely have meant his untimely demise, before he realized he could stand and managed to reach the surface, gasping and coughing up water.

“What the- Why did you do that?!”

Ari giggled. She sat on the edge of the basin, little feet dangling an inch above the water, entirely unfazed by the sorcerer’s wrath. “Is faster. Now you take off clothes, we dry, tadaa, both clean!”

Zargothrax had no coherent response to this. He busied himself trying to get his curls out of his face, which when soaked probably weighed more than the goblin and were about as cooperative and just breathed to calm his racing heart.    
To be fair, Ari did have a point.    
After somehow unwrapping himself from the sheets of lead his clothes had become, the water was more than pleasant. Ari scuttled away with his soaked clothes and returned merely moments later to sit on the edge of the basin again. It was silent for a while, both of them deep inside their own thoughts. Zargothrax went over the many bigger and smaller aches he’d not managed to treat yesterday, noticing he’d been a lot more successful than expected. Jelisia would be proud of him.

“Why are sad, Zargo?”

Zargothrax snapped out of his thoughts, not having noticed the goblin come closer. “Nothing. Just memories.”

“King says memories are everything. Life is memories. Sad and happy, both good.”

Zargothrax crossed his arms on the edge of the basin and rested his chin on them, staring into the mist. “Maybe.” He felt a pinch in his wrist and gladly accepted the distraction, tracing the source of the pain and fixing the damage he’d missed. He flinched at a tiny hand coming down on his shoulder.

“You are very brave. Fighting Hootsman, helping me, is not something humans do normally.”

Zargothrax smiled weakly. “Huh, Ralathor said the same. He wants me to be the hero in his tale. I don’t feel very brave though.” He sighed, then turned his head to look at the goblin again. “The Hootsman killed my friends, you know. They came into our town and just… just murdered all sorcerers. I don’t even know why. And now they’re all after me and the only ally I have wants me to go and battle them face to face for a chance to turn them to our side with that knife that probably doesn’t even exist and-” He buried his face in his arms, ending his sentence with a frustrated groan. “It’s all such bullshit! I want to go home.”

Ari was silent for a long time, but his little hand stayed on the sorcerer’s shoulder, the claws barely a faint tickle on his skin. “I’m sorry,” the goblin said eventually. “That sounds awful. But if want, can stay here. Caves are home too.”

“That’s nice of you but-” He hesitated, trying to think of a good excuse.   
Was there one? If the goblin king was right and there were tunnels leading all the way to Ben Neval - then the approaching snow would not be a problem. If he laid low for a while, maybe the Hootsman and the knights would give up, or at least lose his trail.    
And as to resurrecting his friends…   
He’d never believed that anyway. He’d clung to this hope, this ridiculous fairytale in the middle of legends, for as long as he could, but that hope had shattered some time between leaving Ralathor’s cave and meeting the Hootsman.    
Not even the Gods would be able to bring them back.   
They were gone for good, and all that remained were memories. 

Zargothrax wiped his eyes and smiled at the goblin. “You know what? That sounds like a great idea.”

\---

He stayed with the goblins for more than a month, but it may as well have been a lifetime.    
At Ralathor’s cave, he’d always had the feeling of the hermit being impatient with him, trying to get him out of his way, or prepare him for whatever task the hermit had in mind. In the goblin’s caves, he could just  _ be _ .    
Ari showed him around, and after a few days, he began to understand how the system was built, where to go to if he was in need of some fresh air, or even sit outside for a bit and enjoy the view on the lake, or the glow of Schiehallion in the distance.    
He befriended many other goblins, all of which with names he could not pronounce, who tried their best to teach him the basics of their language, giggling at his hopeless stammering. He didn’t mind their laughter, with it never being malicious. In return, he showed them magic, creating fireworks, illusions, and one time accidentally turning the king’s seat into a lizard.   
That evening, he was actually worried about being thrown out.    
A similar incident had at least been enough for a month of detention in Auchtermuchty, as well as a letter from his parents.    
His father had expressed disappointment, and reminded him of the importance of his studies. His mother’s letter had been a magical recording of her laughter, with actual tears on the paper.    
The goblin king had taken it lightly though, only demanding he go and fetch his chair again, which proved more difficult than expected with the lizard being faster and more agile in the tunnels than he was. With the help of Ari and two of his brothers, he did succeed after a while and spent the next day making some adjustments to his spell - in a closed room though.

The glowing crystals the goblins used for lighting - something they’d acquired from dwarves, as the goblin king had claimed, though he had not said  _ how  _ they’d acquired them - were a blessing. The soft light was much less strainful than torches and candles. Most of the time he didn’t even need his spectacles, and could focus on learning to make use of the vision that remained in his left eye.    
  
Most of the time, Ari was by his side. At first, the goblin claimed she was just making sure he found his way around, that he owed him for the rescue, but when Zargothrax woke for the first time to find Ari curled up against his side, those excuses fell flat. He didn’t mind the goblin’s presence though, and it soon became common practise for Ari to huddle up against him at night.    
By day, he helped the goblins - sometimes by using his magic to speed up construction sites, or simply helping Ari with his daily tasks. Many times, the goblin king called him, to conversations that could last an entire day. He learned about the mountain goblins’ long history, about wars and friendships, about their building efforts and plans. In return, he told of Auchtermuchty, of magic, of the kingdom he’d grown up in and its rich history.    
It was a pleasant exchange, without the hostilities one would have expected knowing that sorcerers had been the major driving power in forcing the goblins into hiding.    
Moreso, the goblin king possessed an extensive library - some books Zargothrax was nearly sure had been part of Auchtermuchty’s library at some point - and let him roam there freely. He could spend all day browsing and then trying out the spells in the caverns. (His first step was learning a silence charm. Better late than never.)    
His ambition had been rekindled and burned brighter than the fires of the volcano. The next time he faced the Hootsman or even prince Angus himself, he’d be ready. 

His masterpiece, however, was the crystal ceiling. Goblins were mostly carnivorous, but that didn’t stop them from trying to breed various plants as well. It worked well enough, the hot springs providing sufficiently warm climate all year round, the summer sun falling through the openings in the mountain providing the necessary light. But once summer was over, for three seasons the soil lay barren.   
Ari had shown him the fields on his first full day with the colony, but only when the goblin king had mentioned their efforts to get a continuous supply going did Zargothrax wonder if he could help. He was no expert in natural elements, but he had helped Sylphea study for her exams more often than he could count - even if it was just having her recite tables from her notes - and it had left him with some pretty good ideas. All he needed to do was find the books to elaborate his knowledge, and then start planning.   
Now, in winter, the plantations were barren, few goblins coming there at all. Next to the opening to the outside, there was a terrace overlooking the lake, where he’d spent quite a few of the warmer days, studying the sky.    
The biggest problem was the summer months - turning the stone ceiling transparent, making it disperse enough light over the fields to get the plants to grow, was easy. Not so keeping it from burning the room in summer. The glass he’d first planned out was made to increase the effect of the already faint sunlight. The hot summer sun would merely set the fields ablaze if it fell through the prism.    
The solution, while being simple in theory, took him weeks to figure out in practice. The stone needed to adjust the amount of light it let through, depending on how strong the influx of light was. Crafting a spell that had the capacity to react intelligently to outside influences though was a hassle. In the end, he drew upon his skills as a necromancer to craft a row of input -> output commands, carefully choosing the amount of light that would go through based on a book about the machinations of the atmosphere he’d dug up in the goblin king’s library.    
It took him three days to implement the spells, using magical light to simulate the effects of the seasons to check if it worked the way it was intended.    
Ari was always by his side, bringing him drinks and snacks while he worked, running errands or helping him by checking the effects of his spells from an outside perspective. Often, she just curled up in his lap and napped there, a calm, supportive presence.   
It was her idea to shield the crystal ceiling with a veil, reminding him of the eagles that could pass by overhead, and more importantly, their riders.

After fulfilling his work, crafting the last rune and securing the spells, Zargothrax didn’t even remember collapsing on his bed and slept for so long Ari nearly made the king lose it with her worry.

After waking and a much-needed bath, Zargothrax could present his creation to the goblins, explaining how it worked and how they could fix it should there be problems. The goblin king thanked him profusely, though he could not hide a healthy amount of skepticism.    
Zargothrax waved it off, his pride not wounded by the goblin’s doubt.    
He’d taken on this Behemoth of a task to keep himself occupied, his conscience scraping at the back of his mind every day. But when he saw the first shy buds emerging from the soil, he knew it was time to go. The goblins were friendly, accepting him in their midst like a slightly unusual cousin, but this was not his home.    
He had a task to fulfil.

He said goodbye to his friends, swearing on his life and soul to keep the location of their home hidden in front of the goblin king’s holy shrine, and promised he would return one day to tell of his adventures. The old king spoke a blessing in the name of their unpronounceable god, resting his clawed hand on the sorcerer’s head. It may not be magic the way Zargothrax knew it, but the power it held was no less. He had to suppress tears as he hugged his friends for the last time.

Then it was time to go for good. With his bag over his shoulder filled with provisions, wrapped in a cloak the goblins had not only fixed but improved with their intricate weavings, he started his journey into the tunnels deep under the mountain. Ari accompanied him, serving as his guide and companion like so many times before.    
He’d expected resistance, perhaps other travellers, roadblocks or even less friendly inhabitants of the far away caverns, but as they emerged into the cold, open landscape upon the third day of their travels, the only inconvenience they’d experienced had been Ari falling asleep on his chest and having him wake with a sore back. 

“There are,” Ari said with a satisfied grin.    
There they were, indeed. The tunnel had opened halfway up into the hills, soon rising to mountains. And right in front of them lay a staircase.

Sure, it was hidden by magic, but not very thoroughly. A passerby could have found it by accident, the veil dispersing once you got close enough.   
Zargothrax looked upwards, the peak of the mountain and whatever entrance lay up there disappearing in the impenetrable mist.

Those were a lot of stairs.

He turned to Ari. “Thank you for bringing me here.” He bent down to hug the goblin, and she jumped into his arms willingly, snuggling up to his chest.

“No problem.”

He set her down again and approached the staircase. It did not look shorter from here either.    
“That is much stairs,” Ari said, hopping up a few of them. “Come, will take long.”

“Ari, you can’t come with me.”

The goblin stopped, blinking at him from the stair she was sitting on. “Why not? I am friend.”

He wanted her to come along. But it wouldn’t be right. “It’s too dangerous. Whatever awaits me up there - it’s no place for a goblin. I’ll come back and tell you everything, but right now, you need to return to your colony.”

“Don’t think so.” Ari shrugged and began hopping up the staircase.

“Ari, listen-”    
Ari did not listen.    
Defeated, Zargothrax began his ascend.    
It was even worse than he’d expected. Sure, he’d run around a lot in the goblin caves, but climbing a nearly endless staircase was nothing even the fittest knight was prepared for, let alone a sorcerer who had better things to do than go on a jog for fun. Ari was ahead of him the entire time, her puffy tail swinging happily, not fazed by the steep ascend.    
He could only imagine how hard she had to hold back her laughter as he panted “Stop!” for the first time, falling down heavily on a rock to give his burning legs a chance at recovery.

The clouds made it hard to assess time passing, so he counted the stairs. Every three hundred or so, he planned a break. By the time he entered the thickest mist, his plan had turned into trying to get his feet off the ground at all, the burn having turned into an inferno. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about the cold anymore.

He’d forgotten to count along, but somewhere around “Fuck this shit” stairs, Ari let out a squeal of delight, suddenly disappearing.    
He heaved himself up the last stairs and found himself in front of an entrance cut into the side of the mountain. The rock was smooth around it, covered in runes that glowed as he touched them, though he was more focused on regaining his breath than admiring the carvings. 

When he had, however, Ari having scuttled back to excitedly draw at his robe, he felt a rush of pride looking back down. He’d made it. 

Zargothrax stepped over the threshold, feeling the magic of the temple engulf him. 

The Blade of Virtue lay ahead.


	12. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the attack on Auchtermuchty, weeks have passed. But the echoes are still being felt all over the country.

Ailsa had awoken with a dreadful feeling in her stomach. The quiet air of the early winter morning had not helped to lighten her mood. She went to the courthouse as usual, fulfilling her duties, but her writing was riddled with mistakes much unlike her. Her mind could not focus on the clients or their petty quarrels. The news had reached them with the first merchants, and Keira, bless her kind but misguided soul, had at once carried it to her neighbors.

Auchtermuchty had been raided by the Knights of Crail, on the order of prince Angus himself. Some even claimed he’d joined the battle. Officially, the wizards of Auchtermuchty had staged a rebellion, threatening to overthrow the noble house McFife, but the messengers knew better. Being part of the very structure of the country, Ailsa heard them talk. It had been revenge, nothing else, for rejecting prince Angus and forbidding him from attending the university.

Ever since then, Ailsa had carried a stone in her heart, growing heavier with each day her child didn’t show a sign of life. The town reacted with reserved curiosity, vague memories of the girl with the frizzy hair and fireworks that had set out to become a sorcerer already faded. As she walked home that light winter day, the stone grew another pound as she spotted Keira and her sisters walking the path from the woods from the direction of Auchtermuchty. Their cheerful conversation broke off abruptly when they spotted the woman coming towards them. Ailsa squared her shoulders and clenched her teeth. Keira, so kind and naive, had been graced with family that spotted none of these qualities, and not enough wit to notice. 

“Ailsa, dear, how lucky we see you. Finlay was looking for you,” Mary, the oldest, chirped. She smiled brightly and without a single shred of honesty. It was no secret that Mary had an eye on him, figuring that Ailsa, being ten years older than Finlay, would lose her charm at some point and make way for a younger, prettier woman.   
“The poor dear looked terrible!” Her eyes widened in mock pity. “He had a visitor with him and seemed quite hurried. Have you heard from your daughter? She moved to Auchtermuchty right?”

“Pardon?” Ailsa was graced with nearly inhuman composure, and not a muscle in her face told of the turmoil within. “I don’t have a daughter. My son lives in Auchtermuchty, though.” A few months ago, she would have added “he’s a sorcerer” out of pure spite. Not today. “Are there news I missed?”

“I don’t think so.” Keira smiled warmly, while the gears in her head were turning visibly. “He looked like a warrior, that visitor. A handsome man, with an impressive beard, but quite frightening.”

As much as she wished for it, that description did not fit her son, lanky and spry since childhood. She graced the women with a smile and bowed slightly, in a fashion unusual for the road. “Thank you for the message, in that case I should see to the visitor and my husband.”

She walked past them in determined, but not hurried steps, until she had rounded the first hedge and saw the entrance to Cowdenbeath. Then she began to run.

Ailsa didn’t care for the slam of the door or her less than proper dress as she stormed into the house, out of breath and sweat dripping from her brow. The house was silent, single specks of dust dancing in the afternoon sun.

“Ailsa, my love.”

She jumped at the voice. The words were barely a whisper. It seemed to take her an eternity to find him. Finlay sat in the shadows, hunched over the small table they only used for storing documents they’d need the next day. He didn’t look up.

“Finlay, love, what happened? I heard we had a visitor.”

“Indeed we did.” Again, the words barely reached her, no more tangible than mist. “He merely had a few questions, nothing big.”

The words let every alarm bell in her body jump into action at once. “Where is he? Are you injured?”

She had never pursued magic, not the way her son had. She knew she was not gifted, but in anger, she could summon sparks of purple fire, a warning to all who dared hurt her loved ones. She stepped up to her husband and turned him around, looking him over in the light of her flame.There was no blood nor bruise, but the emptiness in his eyes told of an injury much greater than one could receive on the physical plain.

“My love. Oh my beloved Ailsa,” he muttered.

_ Just out with it!,  _ she wanted to howl. But she knew it would not help.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, only swayed slightly, as if drunk or in a trance. Only now she spotted the object clasped between his hands. His fingers had cramped around it so hard they cracked when he finally opened them again.

“I found it at the market,” he explained, very softly. “The merchant claimed he’d bought it from some sort of knight speaking an eastern dialect.”

Ailsa stared down at the necklace. Silver, exquisitely forged, clasping a dark red crystal. A necklace of power, of magic, passed down from Ailsa’s grandmother to her mother and eventually to her. She’d know it anywhere. She’d worn it for many years, until she - lacking the talent for such intricate webbings - had passed the necklace to her child, her beloved Zargothrax. Ten years ago he had put it on, taking his place in his family’s proud history, and never surrendered it again, as it was custom.

She traced the intricate ornaments, following the chain up to the clasp. The clasp reinforced with ancient magic, so that nothing but a being of will could remove it, once the righteous owner was gone.

Ailsa fell to her knees, feeling her husband’s arms around herself, and wept.


	13. The Blade of Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Quest draws to a close. But does it really?

The chambers weren’t getting warmer as he advanced deeper into the cavernous depths. Only the charms woven into his cloak kept him warm as his breath crystallised in the moist air. Ari skittered ahead, smelling out quite a few elaborately hidden traps on the way that Zargothrax would have walked right into. Whoever had built this maze, they’d made sure that a spellwielder would have no advantage over a regular person.   
He nearly tripped over Ari, not having noticed the goblin had stopped, cowering a few feet away from the opening to the next bigger chamber. Her big ears were pressed back until it looked like she was wearing a cape, claws scraping the bare stone beneath them as she pressed himself as closely to the floor as she could without becoming a fluffy pancake. 

“What’s wrong?”   
“Shh!” Zargothrax nearly cried out when the goblin - far stronger than her tiny frame let on - pulled him to the floor, motioning for him to stay quiet. “Someone there is in. Dangerous!”

Zargothrax blinked at the goblin. He’d never heard her so frightened. Even in the face of peril, she’d always been happily commenting on everything, avoiding spikes, fire and dwindling depths as if dancing on a sunny meadow.    
Zargothrax sent out his magic. The traps were made to be disguised even from the strongest sorcery, but an enemy - unless he was dealing with the fae themselves - would not be able to hide.    
The cavern was ablaze with magic, but none of it belonged to a physical, living being.    
Oh great. He didn’t feel particularly like meeting one of the Fair Folk, let alone more than one. He had magic - they  _ were _ magic. No sorcerer in their right mind would oppose them unless absolutely necessary.   
“Where? Can you tell who it is?”, he whispered to the trembling goblin. The little creature shook her head, ruby eyes wide in terror.   
“We need leave, Zargo! Is too dangerous!” The goblin tried to drag him away, claws buried into the sleeve of his robe.    
Zargothrax gently untangled the goblin’s fingers from his clothes and pushed her back into the corridor. “I know you mean well, but I need to do this. The knife is my only chance to get my friends back and out of this mess. Wait here, I’ll be back soon.”

Ari tried to hold him back, but fell behind as Zargothrax crept closer to the entrance of the chamber. Keeping himself hidden in the shadows, he peered into the vast, circular hall stretching out in front of him.   
Somewhere, there had to be light seeping in from the outside, for the cavern was bathed in sunlight, amplified by the high crystalline walls. Adjusting his glasses to the brightness with a flick of his wrist, Zargothrax spotted an altar in the middle of the circular room. And in the middle of the altar stuck a knife.    
It looked rusty, darkened by age, not much more than a bread knife really. Considering the amount of glamour in the area, it could be nothing but the Blade of Virtue. Or, maybe Excalibur, but that seemed unlikely.

Zargothrax scanned the room with all senses at his disposal, magical and mundane, taking care to cover his blind side thoroughly, but found no trace of anyone being nearby. No presence, no traces of a person or creature, not even footprints.   
Looking back, Ari had crept into a crevice about six feet off the floor, only her ruby eyes shimmering in the darkness. She shook her head desperately, but did not call out.   
Ralathor had said there was some sort of test - Zargothrax really hoped that did not include physical combat. For some reason, all old tales had a strange focus on hitting things with various forms of molded metal until they either did what you wanted or  _ stopped  _ doing what you  _ didn’t _ want. He could really do without that part of the tale. In fact, he could do without being part of any tale and kindly hoped the hermit would step in horseshit in the near future.

Regardless, he had no choice.   
Zargothrax stepped out into the cavern, defensive spells ready for whatever got thrown his way. 

Which was… nothing.

Step by step, he crossed the chamber, a hovering spell just on the edge of activation in case the floor decided to drop out under him the moment he pulled the blade out of the altar. Ascending the three stairs felt amazing and terrifying at the same time. All he ever wanted had been seeing the world. And here he was, in front of one of the star lords’ mystic artefacts. He wished Sylphea could see this.

The wooden handle was worn, entire splinters having gone missing over the years and Zargothrax was glad he had taken the hermit’s offer of sturdy fingerless gloves - protective against the cold, but not inhibiting his magic.    
He had the knife halfway out of the stone when it stopped.   
Was this part of the test? Was there some task for him to accomplish before being rewarded with the blade?    
He gently rattled the blade, trying to determine if it was magically fastened. It moved, steel scraping against stone, but didn’t become undone. Yet.

He wrapped both hands around the handle, setting one foot on the edge of the altar and pulled. At first, nothing happened. He had to pitch in his whole weight, grinding his teeth in strain, until the blade finally came loose and he stumbled backwards. The only thing saving him from a bad fall was the spell he had woven before. Instead of falling down the stairs and probably splitting his head open, it caught him, hovering him a few inches off the ground before he could reorient and get to his feet again. 

He took a moment to breathe, pulse hammering in his temples from both fear and joy.    
He’d done it!    
Only when his heart had calmed a bit, he inspected his prize.   
The legendary blade looked about as much as a knife would after a few millennia. All in all, it was about as long as his lower arm and in a terrible state. A wooden handle, weather-worn and splintered, with a rusty blade that could probably not cut through warm butter. A good disguise, turning away those who did not know better.   
Any time now it would turn into the actual artefact.

...

Any time now.

Frowning down at the blade, he ran his magic over it. It was about as magical as his mother’s kitchen knife.   
Cursing to himself, Zargothrax looked around the room. It was probably a decoy of some sort, trying to deter anyone who was not The Chosen Hero. Or part of whatever test awaited him. 

“It’s not a very good test if I can’t even find it to begin with,” he complained to the still room.    
He was about to drop the knife, or at least put it back into the stone, when his finger felt a slight ledge on the handle, something too smooth to be a splinter. He lifted the knife closer to his eyes to inspect it, adjusting his spectacles with his magic to make it easier to see. In the ancient wood of the handle, nearly worn down by age, was a sigil. It was hard to make out at first - wings? A sword? It was familiar, anyhow.

Really, he would have recognized it anywhere, having had a painted copy of this very sigil in his room for most of his adolescence.

“You seem to be looking for something. How unfortunate that you were late  _ indeed _ .”

He wasn’t sure what dropped faster, the knife from his hand, literally, or the floor away from under his feet, metaphorically.   
Ser Proletius, Grand Master of the Knights of Crail, leaned against the far wall, legs crossed as if he had no care in the world, swirling a glistening white blade between his fingers. Even from a distance, the weapon was ablaze with magic like he’d never seen before.

“On the other hand, that saves me a lot of unnecessary hours up in the sky, and a deal with the Questlords. You  _ do _ have to tell me how you tamed that rogue unicorn of theirs, I’m quite curious.”

The blade absorbed the blast of magic Zargothrax threw at the knight. Maybe he should have been scared. But the rage coursing through his veins did not leave room for such emotions.

“You,” he roared, his fury summoning lightning from the wet air, dancing over the walls and floor. It was enough to have Proletius flinch back from the wall, looking around worriedly. His shock only lasted a second. The knight then shrugged his shoulders, pointing the blinding white blade at the sorcerer in mock challenge.   
The Blade of Virtue was a lot smaller than he’d expected, the blade itself barely longer than his hand. The handle shimmered in all colors of the rainbow, an unknown metal molded to depict a dragon’s head in awe-inspiring detail.

“Dear me, you have a temper that could match our lovely prince,” Proletius joked. “I’d love to see how you fare against him. Not for long, I assume, but still.”

The blade absorbed the next bolt of lightning, and the one after that as well. Proletius simply watched him with a small smile.    
Zargothrax stifled the flow of magic, hands clenched so hard he was shaking, hoping to kill the knight by power of staring alone. With the blade absorbing the blasts, there was no point in depleting his energy, though even the tiniest scratch upon the knight would have been hugely satisfying.

How? How could this bastard wield the Blade of Virtue? Wasn’t it meant for a hero? Not for a monster, a murderer and traitor like him!

“Are you done?”, Proletius asked. “It’s quite cold in here, I must admit.”

“I hope your nuts freeze off then,” Zargothrax spat. “If you’re here to kill me, so do it! What are you waiting for, coward?”

Proletius frowned. The accusation of cowardice was a heavy one for a mighty warrior of Crail, even from an enemy. “Fair enough.” 

The blade burst out in a blinding light, burrowing straight through the magical lenses on the young sorcerer’s face. The spells were shredded like they were no sturdier than spiderwebs. Gasping in pain and surprise, Zargothrax recoiled, trying to shield his eyes. He thought he could see the bones in his hand in the bright light.    
The moment of distraction was enough for Proletius to cross the distance between them.    
A heavy blow landed between Zargothrax’ shoulders, throwing him to his knees as a bolt of absolute agony shot down his spine and into every limb down to the fingertips. He cried out, trying to catch himself. 

Once he was on the ground, it was over. But gods it hurt…

His head snapped around as a boot plunged into his stomach, nearly making him spill the remains of his lunch. His hood dropped back, as did the glasses, clattering uselessly over the stone as he collapsed, breath knocked out of him and unable to draw another.

It was bright, so bright. The pain was unbearable, Ralathor’s mighty charms utterly useless. This was it. He couldn’t even say he’d come so far - he hadn’t. He’d failed. His magic was insufficient against such a powerful weapon, whose assumed purity seemed no more than a sham now. 

Zargothrax closed his eyes, and waited for the killing blow.


	14. Close to your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax and Ari face off against Ser Proletius. It doesn't go as planned.

„Well fuck me sideways,“ Ser Proletius muttered to himself. He needed to brief Hoots about this before they faced the prince. The fact that he himself, personally, AND the Hootsman had looked at this kid and not realized he was still alive was embarrassing in itself.    
If prince Angus found out though…. 

He really didn’t want to think about that prospect.

Proletius sighed and grabbed the sorcerer by his collar, dragging him to his knees. He had to be in immense pain judging from the way he cowered, trying desperately to shield his eyes, but still writhing like a rabid snake in Proletius’ grip. The glasses had hidden a deep scar, likely the very injury Proletius had assumed to be deadly.    
Anger welled up inside of him at the thought. He should have checked. The sight of that knight though, or rather what was left of him, had thrown him off and his leg had been a constant nuisance-

The wizard rammed an elbow into Proletius’ leg, right where the injury from the raid was still festering. The knight didn’t even have the time to scream out, the air just left his lungs in a voiceless gasp as agony flared through his leg all the way into his spine. His fingers slipped off the sorcerer’s robe as his knees buckled, coming to a painful stop against the hard ground.

The young wizard - what was his name again? Zippodex? - tried to run. A smart decision really, had he not tried to grab his glasses on the way. Proletius was an experienced knight, not someone easily stunned by even intense pain. The short uphold was enough for him to work through the initial surprise and spring back into action. He got a hold of the sorcerer’s robe and dragged him backwards, the abrupt halt to his flight sending the wizard sprawling. 

His leg hurt like hell. This could not be normal, not after such a long time. He’d really need to find a healer, a good one, not the same old doctor that had dismissed it for the third time just yesterday. 

“Running is pointless. The entire country knows who you are. Don’t make this harder for yourself than it needs to be.”

The sorcerer tried to kick him, slipping from Proletius’ grasp, just to be faced with an immovable barrier in form of the stone altar. He let out a wordless, inhuman growl and struggled to his feet again, drawing up his hood to hold off the brightest light.    
Ser Proletius was impressed. In another world, the lad would have made a fine knight.    
In this world, it made him a nuisance.

Proletius got to his feet, clenching his jaw at the pain radiating from his calf. He drew the blade he’d gotten from the stone and pointed it at the sorcerer, more to keep himself moving than actually threatening. He cursed prince Angus’ stubbornness. Getting an angry, potentially deadly sorcerer off a literal mountain was harder than herding cats.    
Proletius had grown up with cats. They would not get herded.    
Even if the knife protected him, like it had from the lightning bolts, it would most likely not protect his eagle - or himself from a thrashing, kicking teenager and a headache.

“What are you waiting for?”, the sorcerer spat. “Come ahead and kill me if you must. What’s one more life?”   
Proletius mustered him, turning the words over and then storing them away for later. “Nothing, to me,” he answered with a shrug. “Enemy is enemy. But I can’t. Prince Angus wants to see you personally to judge your case.”

The sorcerer - Zargoflax? Zargopax? - laughed at that, an ugly, harsh sound unbefitting his youthful appearance. “I’d rather die than come with you.”

Proletius rolled his eyes. Another flash of the blade evaporated the big words, making the robed figure falter, clutching his eye with a pitiful whimper. Proletius scoffed as he picked him up by his collar like an unruly kitten. He could only hope this would appease the prince a bit. Plus, he’d get a nice crate of Unstian wine out of it, though Hoots would not be too pleased to have lost yet another bet.    
The sorcerer struggled, digging his fingers into his captor’s arm and cursing at him in a dialect Proletius did not understand and did not want to understand either. Proletius could feel the power he poured into whatever spells he was cooking up.    
The magic never got to work. Instead, the blade he’d drawn from the altar pulsed and retaliated.    
Zargothrax staggered, his fingers slipping as the counterattack flooded his nervous system with energy. His scream came out as a breathless whimper.    
With no further resistance from his captive, Proletius decided it was time to go. He wrapped the rope he’d brought - courtesy of his visitor from the west - around the sorcerer’s arms and led him out of the cavern. It wasn’t pleasant dragging a barely-conscious prisoner through the tunnels, especially not with his leg feeling like it would break apart any second, but it wasn’t as hard as he’d feared.    
The dark corridor swung off to the right, but Proletius went ahead, towards a lighter spot in the distance. He whistled, hearing the sound echo between the stone walls, letting his eagle know he was coming.    
“Wasn’t that hard, was it?”, he asked the sorcerer. He didn’t expect an answer, seeing how the kid could barely set one foot in front of the other, let alone focus his gaze.

He did get an answer though, a raspy growl unbefitting any human blessed with sanity. “Fuck you!”

“How frightful,” Proletius responded with a sardonic smile. “I tremble before y— AHHHH!”

Something small, but vicious collided with him, digging razor-sharp claws into his neck. Proletius cursed and dropped to the ground, rolling over to get rid of the attacker. It squeaked and let go, tumbling off into the distance. 

“Get his leg, he’s injured!” The wizard must have recovered from his drowsiness, for he was already busy slipping the far too loose rope from his arms.   
Proletius cursed himself for letting his guard down like this, but deep inside, the passion for a decent fight was already burning. This was merely a short break to amuse himself with.    
He saw the shadows move and struck.    
His blade met only empty air.   
Before he had time to get up again or even see who he was dealing with, the opponent had recovered and sunk teeth and claws into his leg. His leg that was unfortunately not armored because the metal had pressed uncomfortably on his injury.    
Proletius howled in pain, trying to shake the attacker off, but the weight merely moved with his kicks, large ears fluttering like a cape.

A  _ goblin _ ?

Ignoring the pain, he swatted the tiny figure with the pommel of his blade instead of trying to shake them off. The goblin whimpered, but held on, sinking its tiny razorblade teeth deeper into his leg. Proletius cursed and decided to take drastic measures - he rammed his leg against the nearest wall. The goblin shrieked, which luckily covered Proletius’ own scream of pain, and tumbled off down the corridor.

“Ari!”

Oh, the little beast had a  _ name _ ?    
Dropping his short sword, Proletius drew the knife he’d gotten in the cavern. The blade covered the scene in a blinding flash as he dove for his target. 

….

Zargothrax clenched his jaw as the bright light dug sharp claws into his temples, but managed to uphold the spell. “Don’t move!”

“I’m not,” Proletius answered smugly. “Neither should you, though.”

Zargothrax slowly lowered the arm he’d whipped up to shield himself, the other hand outstretched, brimming with magic. His gaze was blurry, colorful spots dancing over his field of vision in the dim corridor.

“Zargo, run,” Ari whispered. “I stop evil man.”

“Adorable, isn’t he?”, Proletius said with a smirk. He had one arm wrapped around Ari’s bony mid, pinning her arms down, claws scraping uselessly against his armor. 

The other one pressed the Knife of Virtue against the goblin’s throat. 

“I never thought goblins even spoke to humans, but you seem to have made a true friend.”

Zargothrax stared at the scene, paralyzed.    
Fuck. He needed to save Ari, but how? Proletius was far stronger and more skilled in combat. Zargothrax’ only advantage was his magic, but looking at the glowing blade, he already knew his spell would fail, or simply be absorbed. Would it be enough to distract him somehow?

Proletius mustered him, a calm smile on his face. “I have a deal for you, Zargoflax.”

“Zargothrax,” the sorcerer corrected automatically. “What deal?”

“You come with me without struggling, and your little goblin friend lives.”

“Other deal: You let her go and I don’t blow your head off,” Zargothrax retorted. He let the energy in his hand flare up, warning anyone not to come too close. He couldn’t hurt the knight directly, perhaps, but the leg was a weak spot, and the surrounding area was not immune to magic.

“You misunderstand. This is not a negotiation. Either you obey, or I will cut the wee lad’s throat. Sure, you may get away for a bit longer, but can you live with that guilt?” He crooked an eyebrow at the sorcerer.

Zargothrax stared at him, his thoughts tripping over himself. Could he aim well enough to get Ari away from the knight? He was holding her pretty tightly- 

“You’re taking too long, wizard. Counting to three now and the little one dies. One.”

Did the protective power of the blade only cover Proletius’ body or was his armour included? Gods, there was too much to think about-

“Two.”

Gods, DO SOMETHING.

“Thr-”

“NO!” The knife stopped, already drawing blood from the goblin’s skin. Zargothrax dropped his stance, letting his magic sizzle out in his palms. “I‘ll go with you. Just don’t hurt her.”

“Zargo, no! Must leave!”, Ari cried.

Proletius smiled. “Good. A very smart decision of you.” He moved the knife away from Ari’s throat, but didn’t set her down. “Take the rope. The knot should close itself if you pull.” Zargothrax obeyed, feeling foolish and useless.    
Proletius himself had neglected to properly draw it closed before. When Zargothrax did now, it clamped down harder than a bear trap. He felt it tear into his magic, a cold, numb ache, sucking out all warmth in his body. It was an anti-mage device. 

Why did he think of Sire Equestrion now? He’d love such a trinket, that was for sure.

“Now let her go. I can’t hurt you anymore.”

Proletius motioned him over to the exit with the blade. He didn’t seem to plan setting the goblin down soon. Zargothrax followed, feeling despair and helplessness threaten to drown him. He’d failed. He’d failed to find the knife in time, he’d failed to avenge his friends, and now he’d almost gotten a new friend killed as well. 

And Ralathor still believed  _ he _ was supposed to be a hero?

There was an eagle sitting perched on a ledge, right next to the dwindling path Zargothrax had laboriously climbed by foot. It squawked when it saw them, eyeing Zargothrax suspiciously. Was that the same eagle- no way.    
The Grand Master of Crail didn’t share his steed with common soldiers did he?    
That reasoning didn’t make the eagle any less frightening. 

“Don’t worry, he only eats goblins and deer,” Proletius joked. “Aquilus, let our guest climb on your back, will you?” 

The eagle huffed, rustling its gigantic wings, but jumped down from the ledge and cowered so Zargothrax could climb up. It was surprisingly easy, seeing how the eagle was bigger than any horse he’d ever ridden, nearly as big as Sorcha. 

“Alright, lovely. Let’s see…” He reached up and tapped the rope with the blade. Zargothrax screamed in shock and pain when the rope bit into his skin, the loose ends suddenly wrapping around his throat, guided by whatever enchantment had been placed on them.

“Ah, very nice. I could get used to this.” Proletius weighed the knife in his hands, nodding to himself. “Prince Angus will be glad to meet you, lad. Two of my knights, and even the Hootsman have some words for you as well, I believe.” He laughed, as if the idea was hilarious in some way.    
Zargothrax felt sick, unable to move lest the rope cut into his neck. The eagle was watching him, the golden eyes drilling into every fiber. He was pretty sure it wanted to tear him apart alive any moment, only its master’s presence keeping it civil.

Proletius looked down on Ari, still cowering helplessly in his iron grip.    
“Good work, little friend. Truly, I’m grateful.”    
With one swift motion, Proletius drew the blade over Ari’s throat.

“NO!” Zargothrax tried to jump off, to run and help his friend, but the eagle swiftly nabbed the rope with its beak and held him back. “WE HAD A DEAL YOU BASTARD!”

Proletius dropped the goblins lifeless body and shook off the blood that had gotten on his armour. Ari just lay there, a dark green stain spreading from his torn neck, the light in his ruby eyes dying as Zargothrax had to watch on, unable to intervene.   
Proletius wiped the Blade of Virtue - what an irony! - on a cloth before sheathing it.    
“Ugh. Goblin blood. Hard to get out.” He wiped his hand on a nearby rock. “Well, let’s get going.”

He swung himself up on his eagle’s back, taking the rope from the sharp beak. Zargothrax tried to kick him, too angry to even think of using a spell.    
Proletius slapped him across the face so hard stars exploded in front of the sorcerer’s eyes. He faltered, his head sinking into the eagle’s feathers, where he stayed.

“I don’t like liabilities,“ Proletius explained cheerfully. „And besides, it’s just a goblin, no need to get so upset.”

Zargothrax didn’t respond, knowing all that would come out was a sob or a curse that the enchanted ropes would inevitably throw back at him. He swallowed the blood that had pooled in his mouth and just closed his eyes, feeling wind tear through his hair as the majestic eagle threw himself into the sky. Somewhere down there, Ari would lie, until another being found him, either to give him a proper burial or devour him. His molecules would return to nature in one way or the other.

He’d always loved this view on things, but now it provided little comfort. The goblin had saved his life, twice, and now he’d paid with his own. It was not fair. It just wasn‘t fair.

He’d always dreamed of flying a Crailian war eagle. All his life he’d wanted to be a knight of Crail, a hero that tales were sung of many years down the line. When that dream had shattered under the knowledge of just how incapable he was in physical combat, he’d limited his wish to at least flying once. 

And now even that dream had been taken from him by the very man he’d idolised for so many years, though the eagle’s flight was as majestic up here as it looked from the ground. The giant wings moved in a steady rhythm, taking them through the sky at dizzying speed.   
Eventually, the biting winds swept away his anger, and even the desperation, leaving behind only emptiness and the taste of blood in his mouth. 

The feathers kept them warm, even in the frigid air. Eventually, Zargothrax sat up, trying to relieve the strain the rope put on his neck.   
The view was breathtaking. The highlands stretched out under them, here and there flanked by a mountain, the towns merely specks of dust on an endless grey-green rug.

“What does the prince want from me? Why not kill me on the spot?”

Proletius shrugged his shoulders, for a moment looking startled, as if he’d been in thoughts.

“I wouldn’t know. His majesty was not exactly pleased you got away, that much I can tell you. Maybe he wants the satisfaction of finishing the job himself.”

_ Guess he wasn’t too pleased with YOU either _ . He didn’t speak the words, knowing it would only earn him another punishment and lessen his chances of getting answers. Even if he died, maybe Ralathor could figure things out. He was older and infinitely more powerful.    
If anyone could take down Angus and that wretched hammer, then it was him.

“How’d you get the blade? I thought there was some sort of trial?”

Proletius squinted at him against the wind. Zargothrax expected another slap and the command to shut his mouth, but the knight’s eyes merely wandered over the landscape for a bit. Zargothrax thought to spot the shape of Loch Rannoch, a glittering in the otherwise matte scenery. Dundee was still quite a bit away. 

“So you’re willing to chat after all?” 

Zargothrax merely shrugged. Licking his lips proved to be futile in the icy wind. The blood had dried, leaving a painful crust where it had burst from the slap. He was more than a bit shocked when Proletius handed him his spectacles. One lense was cracked, but it did relieve the strain the light put on his eyes.   
“The story said the blade would only be revealed to a chosen hero.”

Proletius snorted. “I’m honored, then. It seems pretty ordinary to me, but you wizards have a knack for fables I suppose.” 

Ordinary? A knife that was able to block magic and burst forth in blinding light was  _ ordinary _ ?

“How… how did you get it?”   
  
Proletius laughed, his cheer utterly absurd in this situation.    
“You know what, normally I don’t talk to prisoners, but you’ve impressed me, and the journey is still long.” He changed his position on the eagle’s back, as if he was readjusting on a comfy sofa instead of the back of a literal flying beast thousands of feet in the air. “You know how long we’ve been waiting for you? Always taking shifts, trying to scan the area? No wonder we couldn’t find you, if you travelled with the goblins. A smart move, lad, really smart. If it wasn’t so flashy, I may have ignored it entirely. But you know, sitting up there in the cold for  _ weeks _ whenever my shift came around, waiting for you, it gets tiring. Eventually I thought I may as well take a look at this thing you want so desperately .”

Zargothrax sagged. How’d they figured out where he would go?

“Not sure what’s so special about it really,” Proletius pondered. “No monster protecting it, no mythical quest, no trial. Came out smooth as butter.”

One of the trials described  _ was  _ waiting an ungodly amount of time. Proletius had shown that patience when he waited for Zargothrax to turn up.    
But... but the blade was meant for a hero pure of heart! Proletius was a killer! Not a hero! And certainly not pure of heart!

“Since we’re chatting so nicely…” Proletius stretched his legs, grimacing slightly. “How come Sire Equestrion hates you with such a burning passion? He seemed… aggravated, speaking of you.”

...oh. OH. 

_ That’s  _ how they had found out who he was.    
In lack of alternatives, Zargothrax retold the story of how he’d arrived at Auchtermuchty in a few sentences, as well as his panicked flight from the same Questlord near Dundee. Proletius laughed heartily at both tales, at some point even wiping tears from his eyes.

“Brilliant! I’ll keep that in mind next time I speak to him.” He smirked, clearly imagining the possibilities of that conversation. 

“How’d you even know I’d come?”, Zargothrax asked. “It’s not like Ralathor put out a map-”

Oh  _ shit. _

The knight’s eyes burrowed straight into his, sharper than any blade. A small smile played around his lips. “Well for one thing, even if the Hootsman hadn’t been looking for you, he would have after you hexed him. I’ve not seen him in person yet, but I’ve been told he must have looked frightful.” Proletius couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “It wasn’t too hard to figure out once we had a limited area to look in, considering your kind just  _ loves _ old stories. So Magister Ralathor is still around after all? I’d almost crossed him off the list.”

Zargothrax stared at him, unable to conjure even the most basic sentence. How could he have been so  _ dumb _ ?    
Ralathor would literally kill him.

If he ever got to him, that was, for his survival chances weren’t very good in the first place.

He shrieked right out when the eagle suddenly dove, air rushing past him at a dizzying speed, his stomach somewhere over his head as they fell. He felt the knight take hold of the ropes binding him, which was possibly the only thing preventing him from simply falling to his doom. The fall stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the eagle catapulting them back into horizontal flight with the vertigo of a neverending jump. They were sailing much deeper now, nearly touching the trees below.

“Fun, eh? I love this part. Aquilus has always been our greatest pride, even at his age.” Proletius couldn’t keep the laughter from his voice. 

Zargothrax didn’t answer, merely stared at the rapidly approaching spires of Dundee as he tried to keep his stomach and subsequently soul from leaving his body in a vertical direction. He’d imagined a eagle’s battle dive to be more fun.   
Even less fun was the conclusion he was getting to.

Did pure of heart mean someone who only did good, just things?

Or could it mean someone who  _ thought  _ they were righteous, regardless of their actions?

The eagle’s wings stirred up a cloud of dust as it dove into the courtyard of the royal palace, tearing at the now withering flower arrangements and scaring away not a few servants who’d chosen this spot to rest during their break. Proletius swung himself down from his steed’s back when he’d settled, an impressive amount of self-control keeping his leg from breaking down in the movement. He took a moment to pet the eagle’s neck, muttering to it. It closed its eyes and squawked, gently nudging him with the razor-sharp beak as Proletius dug his entire hand into the soft feathers.

Zargothrax had to fight the urge to just kick Proletius out of pure spite, seeing how he had no chance to get away now anyway. But he didn’t.

He’d save his strength, for whatever was to come.   
Before he knew it, he was rudely dragged from the eagle’s back and across the courtyard into the palace. Proletius went first, his limp less noticeable than the stiffness in his back and the shaking muscles, then followed Zargothrax, squeezed in between two soldiers much bigger than him.   
They gripped his arms with bone-breaking force, and to his horror, he discovered they were the two knights he’d hexed in the forest. He tried to hold still as much as he could, every movement being punished with a subtle kick or elbow in his side, but one of them seemed to find it particularly amusing to pull on the rope around his neck until he hissed at the pain. 

“Not so almighty anymore, wizard?”, he taunted. “Why don’t you throw a spell at us while you’re at it? Summon a goddamn DUNG HEAP maybe?”

“Lewis,” Proletius commanded. “We’re in the royal house. Act like it.”

The soldier grumbled, but straightened up, not without giving Zargothrax’ arm another warning squeeze that made him gasp in pain. “Yes, Ser. My apologies.”

The rest of the journey was silent. Zargothrax had never been here before, but neither the detailed ornaments cut into the marble halls nor the exquisite portraits even registered in his mind. The palace was huge. He could hide here for days. But he’d need to get away quickly and be smarter and faster than the guards that knew the palace inside out.

They stopped in front of a large wooden door, intricately carved with ornaments. The middle of the portal sported the crest of the McFifes, flanked by two large unicorns. Proletius knocked and then slipped through the door, leaving them standing alone in the hallway.    
Zargothrax didn’t dare look up at his captors, but he felt their bodies vibrate with suppressed laughter.

The one on the right pulled on the rope and suddenly he couldn’t breathe anymore.   
“Now little wizard, I’m just about  _ dying _ to know what your problem with us was.”

The rope cut into his neck, threatening to just cut it off with enough time. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

“Do you know what you did? You humiliated us in front of the entire forces. In front of my  _ fiancée _ . Do you know how pathetic it is to have to be rolled out of a dung heap by your friends because your armor is so soaked you can’t move anymore?”

A harsh jab to his ribs followed. He wanted to whimper, to scream even, everything was so hot and cold at the same time, but he couldn’t  _ breathe- _

“Hey don’t kill him, the prince is gonna flip if he doesn’t get him alive.”

Air filled his lungs, relieving and torturous at the same time. Every breath burned worse than any alcohol he’d ever tried, but he breathed. The soldiers held him upright as a sudden cough dug into his chest, tears of pain dripping to the no doubt expensive red carpet.

“Pathetic,” the other knight scoffed. “Strong in the shadows, but cries like a little kid at a few scratches.”

They both shot to attention when the portal was opened, the heavy wooden doors groaning. Zargothrax blinked away the tears and tried to make out something. Beyond lay a vast hall, whose marble floor was illuminated by the winter sun falling through painted windows, decorating the stone with colourful fantasies.

Proletius waved them in and made them drop the prisoner to his knees in the middle of the hall. Then they left, Proletius included. The portal slammed shut and it was silent. The only person in the room was a huge framed portrait depicting a young woman in green armour. A delicate silver crown adorned her shoulder-long brown hair, lively turquoise eyes watching over the room. 

_ Anna McFife, princess of Dundee _

Angus’ older sister, that vanished without a trace when the prince had only been 14 years old. Everyone knew the story. Rumor had it the grief of losing her oldest child had cost the queen’s life. She’d died only months after the princess had been proclaimed dead, without a ransom demand or trace of her whereabouts since she’d gone missing on a hunting trip.

He’d been trying to get out of the knot for hours now, his arms were cramping with every movement, but he’d managed to loosen it while staring at the portrait. Just a few minutes-

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Sir Wizard. I have been looking forward to this meeting for a  _ very  _ long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna McFife is inspired and dedicated to hootsforce on tumblr, and our mighty princess. <3


	15. The Prince of Fife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not exactly how Zargothrax imagined the meeting with Angus going. But you gotta do what you gotta do.  
(Warning for torture/gore in this chapter.)

He’d nearly expected Angus to wear armour, even in his own home. It would fit him better, the picture of a mad tyrant, just waiting to claim his place on the throne, right under the memorial to the queen that never came to be.

Then again, mad tyrants rarely looked like they’d been dragged out of bed five minutes ago. Angus’ hair was ruffled and the belt holding his tunic sloppily closed, but the grip around the Hammer of Glory was steady and his eyes sharp despite the dark circles lining them.

The prince stepped up to his prisoner, looking him over in a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “Huh. I thought you’d be more impressive. But you wizards aren’t fighters, I’ve already noticed.” He let out a small giggle. “Really, I should have known even as a prisoner you manage to inconvenience me.” 

“My apologies, your highness. If it was up to me I’d have let you sleep,” Zargothrax responded wryly, taking in the scratches on the prince’s chest and the small circular bruises on his neck the tunic did not cover.

Angus frowned at him, trying to process the intent of the statement. “A jokester, are you? Lovely.” He huffed, changing his grip on the hammer slightly, as if it wasn’t a barely concealed threat while he put on a friendly face.    
The prince started pacing around him, swinging the hammer over his shoulder. The rune - something resembling a swirling vortex - carved into the side of the heavy head glowed ominously, even in the bright morning light.

“Do I know you, perhaps? Those red robes do seem familiar.” He smirked, taking the hammer off his shoulder and mustering it with a loving gaze. “Though I thought I’d taken care of your lot personally.”

“Did you really expect to kill all of us, just like that?”

The punch came from nowhere. Zargothrax doubled over as every nerve fiber was filled with liquid fire. His chest seemed to draw into itself where the fist had connected with his solar plexus. Whatever breath he’d had was knocked out of him and would not return for far too long.

“Perhaps,” Angus said. He swung the hammer in a circle while he pondered, cheerfully watching as his prisoner fought for breath. “But it was enough to exterminate all except  _ you _ .” The giggle that followed lacked any warmth. “You know what, I get it! If you’d come into town with… what are you even?”

He pulled at Zargothrax’ hood, trying to decipher the ornaments woven into the fabric. “What does that say?”

Zargothrax didn’t respond. Even if he’d been able to speak right now, he had no answer.    
He’d gotten the robe from Ralathor, only changing the color and adding runes for his protection, but he’d not bothered to inspect the meaning of the inscriptions further.    
Angus muttered to himself while he read, with an awful pronunciation at that.    
Considering the prince was not exactly known for his wits, it was though impressive. Even other sorcerers nigh broke a leg trying to figure out their opponent’s specialties, if they even got close enough to read the ornaments.

“Dead something, dead… OH!” The prince beamed at his epiphany. “You’re a necromancer, then? Huh, I wouldn’t have thought.”

Angus let go, letting the hood fall back on Zargothrax’ shoulders. Without the fabric covering his sides, he felt naked, shivers running down his spine in the cold air. Even worse, the winter sun fell directly through the windows, making the stones around them shine brighter than any crystal. His damaged spectacles were barely sufficient to dampen the painful glow.

Angus spread his arms, holding the hammer like it weighed nothing. “I get it! If you’d come into my city with a horde of demons and undead things, I’d be pretty pissed too! Fair enough!” He frowned at his prisoner. “You know what, it’s not very polite to talk to your king with these on, is it? I want to know who I invite into my court.”

Angus stepped forth and drew the spectacles off the sorcerer’s eyes. With that, his last feeble defense was gone. Agony filled his mind as the sun in zenith burrowed directly into his bad eye. The dancing lights of the window made it worse instead of better, adding a nauseating quality to the scene. Zargothrax clenched his jaw and focused on staying upright, unwilling to show weakness and give the prince even the slightest satisfaction.

“Oh  _ my _ ,” Angus exclaimed. He bent down, grabbing Zargothrax’ jaw in an iron hand, turning his head left and right to inspect him a bit closer. “That is some nasty injury  _ indeed _ . No wonder Proletius thought you were dead!” He chuckled to himself. “Don’t tell him I know yet. If even Hoots missed you, I can hardly blame him, my lady says. But his face will be glorious when I tell him, so psst.”

Zargothrax stared up at the prince, willing so much contempt into his expression as was possible without activating his magic and receiving the backlash.   
Angus drew his thumb over the scar, making Zargothrax flinch, though the touch wasn’t painful in itself.

“I reckon it hurts, eh?”, the prince mused. “You can hardly look at me without nearly shattering your own jaw.” He let go, leaning on his hammer as if relaxing on a walk in the forest. 

“You seem awfully young too. Too young to be a magister, for sure.”

When he didn’t receive an answer, Angus stepped forth, once more gripping his prisoner’s jaw to force his gaze upwards. “Am I right, or not?”

“Yes,” Zargothrax croaked. The light hurt so much. He just wanted to look away, back to the shadows.

“Yes  _ what _ ?”

“Yes, you’re right,” he exclaimed desperately. “I’m- I was just a student.”

“I see.” Angus let go and turned his back upon the sorcerer while Zargothrax gratefully turned his face from the bright lights, trying to loosen the cramp running through his neck from the harsh treatment.   
Angus huffed, swinging the hammer over his shoulder, eyes directed out of the colorful window. “And here we were, thinking we were looking for some ancient magus, versed in the secrets of the universe. How else would you have avoided my troops, the Knights of Crail AND the Hootsman?”

“And you,” Zargothrax added, surprised at the cheerful taunt he’d managed to force into his words.

Angus, whose pause had only been for theatrics, nearly choked on his own words. “What do you mean?”

Zargothrax got to his feet, staggering slightly, but then finding a stable stance. Angus didn’t seem so tall and mighty anymore when they were basically the same height. 

“Your little conversation in the forest didn’t go unnoticed. King Alastair is dying and you’re just waiting to start planning the coronation. You and your lady really do make a  _ grand _ couple, I must say.” He paused to let the sneer hang in the air a bit longer. Angus had gone pale, entirely speechless. “Don’t underestimate us mages, or it may be your last mistake,  _ your highness _ .”

Angus stared at him, the gears in his head turning visibly. His grip around the hammer tightened, burning rage shooting through his eyes.    
This was it. But if he was to die now, he would go down with all spells blazing, even if it was merely metaphorical.

“Go ahead,” Zargothrax snarled. “Come face me in a fair battle and see how high and mighty you are.” He thought of Gideon, spry and bouncy and sweet. Gideon with a sharper tongue than even his sister, if only he was provoked. Zargothrax copied his expression then, that expression of scorn deeper than any words. “But I would prefer to speak to Lady Iona. If my fate is to be decided today, it just seems fair to speak to the judge personally, instead of her lap dog.”

Angus’ face grew red with uncontained wrath. In a second, he’d swing his hammer and end the sorcerer’s life. He could only hope Angus went for the head first.

“My love.”

The rest of the words were swallowed by a deafening bang. Zargothrax lost his balance and crumpled to the cold, hard floor, feeling blood seep into his mouth once more. He’d expected a kick, or even a finishing blow by the hammer, but nothing came.    
The ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear anything but his own hammering heart and heavy breaths as heat spread through his face.   
At least it was dark, his hair and hood covering his eyes.

A hand closed around his collar and dragged him upwards. He squinted against the light, suppressing a groan of pain.

“I wanted to play nice,” Angus hissed. His face was inches from the sorcerer’s, blue eyes nigh blazing with rage. 

No.

They  _ were _ glowing, an electric, entirely unnatural blue.    
Just like the sigil on the hammer. 

“I tried to give you a  _ chance _ ! Offer you a place in my court! All you wanted, in front of your very eyes. But I’m done playing nice now.”

He dropped Zargothrax, so suddenly the sorcerer landed on his knees.

“Yes,” Angus growled. “That’s right. You see, sorcerers are  _ urgently  _ needed in this situation. In fact, there is exactly one sorcerer we need, and you know where he is.”

Oh. Oh no.    
Zargothrax tried to hide the tidal wave of horror from his features. How could he have been so stupid? His own death was one thing.    
But he couldn’t pull Ralathor into this.

Only now he realized the pale blue figure behind Angus was not a shadow, but princess Iona. She was clad in an exquisite satin robe, her hair falling smoothly on her shoulders, but beyond that veil of order, even she looked dishevelled and tired. 

“I am giving you one. Last. Choice.” Angus bent down and pulled at the rope holding Zargothrax captive. Red flashed before his eyes as the strings burned into his skin, pain seeping into his neck, shoulders, chest.

“Swear a magical oath to me. Swear your loyalty, and help me find Ralathor. Kneel before me, and you will live.”

Zargothrax spat in his face. 

The blood from his torn lip hit the prince’s cheek. Angus flinched, shock and disgust mingling on his features. It was perhaps the most satisfying sight Zargothrax had ever witnessed.

“I. Would. Rather. Die.” 

His promise nearly fulfilled itself, right then and there.   
Angus roared in anger, ready to strike - had it not been for princess Iona. She stepped in the way, placing a slim hand on his chest. The hammer dropped at once, only halfway in the air. 

“My love,” she purred. She pulled a tissue from a pocket in her dress and gently wiped the blood off his face. “That will hardly bring us closer to Ralathor.”

“This insolence-”

“Will be punished,” she assured him. “But we need him, for now. Don’t worry.” Her hands traced his jaw and neck, gently vanquishing the mindless rage. “I believe I know how we can tickle forth this oath.” 

Angus cocked his head, thinking. Then he smiled, like a little boy who just received his first birthday gift. “Of course, how could I have forgotten? I would be lost without you.”    
He pulled Iona closer and as he did, Zargothrax noticed something strange. The princess did not seem eager at all to receive her husband’s affection, much unlike during the nightly conversation he’d witnessed. She endured his kiss and embrace, but her back was stiff and she opted for leaning her head against his neck as soon as she could, turning her face away from him. Angus didn’t notice. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against his chest like a big teddy bear, smiling as he caressed the outline of her hips.

“Well,” the prince trilled, his good mood returned. “You seem very sure you will die, but I must disappoint you. Let me rephrase my offer: Swear a magical oath to me now, or get to know pain beyond your worst nightmare. You’ll do it anyway, no need to make this harder on yoursel-”

Zargothrax tried to kill them.    
He poured every single scrap of magic he had into a spell he’d never even dared think of. He was a necromancer - he resurrected things, didn’t kill them.    
But not today. If he was going to be tortured, he may as well try to take them down or die trying.    
One last spell. One last battle. Then peace.   
_ Fuck you, McFife. _ _   
_ The ropes around his wrists snapped as lightning burst forth from his chest, an uncontrolled tidal wave of magic that toppled a pillar and filled the room with smoke.

After that, it was dark.

\----

When Zargothrax came to again, he knew he’d failed.    
He could feel the icy bite of shackles around his wrists, gravity pulling painfully at his numb arms that were fastened somewhere over his head, outstretched like a martyr on a cross.

He was shivering, icy air having seeped through the few clothes they’d left him, but could not even attempt to warm himself.   
He’d poured every ounce of his power into the spell, something a sorcerer did only as a very last measure. He’d thought the spell would be reflected back at him, ending his life, or kill Angus and Iona. 

Were they dead? He hoped so. It would at least give meaning to his sacrifice.    
But deep inside he knew they were not. The spell had missed them and the sudden loss of energy had knocked him out cold. Even if he’d had a chance to flee now, he couldn’t have used it. His magic had run dry, for days, possibly weeks. 

Possibly forever. 

“You’re awake. Good.”

Had he not already been hanging limply from his chains, he may have frozen in place, the room temperature seeming to drop even more.   
The deep rumble that barely counted as a voice made the walls vibrate.

“So much for there’s always a second meeting. Or in our case, fourth?” He chuckled. “I knew something was off when I saw you lying there, but I suppose age doesn’t stop for me either, especially when I worry about my injured friend.” 

The Hootsman lifted Zargothrax’ head, forcing him to meet his gaze. The light of a single lantern covered the room in a threatening orange glow, reflecting on the barbarian’s long hair and beard.

The Hootsman mustered him for a moment before abruptly letting go, as if he’d lost interest.

“Poor Proletius,” he said with a sigh. “I really hope he gets to keep his leg. It looks pretty bad. You’re not a healer by any chance?” He didn’t wait for an answer. The smirk spreading on the Hootsman’s face sent cold shivers down Zargothrax’ spine.   
“Good job, by the way. I didn’t get the knots out of my beard for days, let alone the thistles from my feet. Had you come here any earlier, I’d have broken every bone in your body. But thinking back, it was quite impressive.”

Zargothrax stared at him, only his paralyzed vocal chords keeping him from whimpering in fear. The taste of blood was overwhelming, but when he swallowed, it only spread and didn’t do anything for the tightness in his throat. How foolish had he been, thinking himself superior as he stood against the barbarian in the forest, with an army of goblins on his side.   
He should have died with all the others. He shouldn’t be here, he should have gone home, he should have-

“Angus wants to keep you until you help us find Ralathor,” the Hootsman continued. “I assume that was Iona’s idea, the lad isn’t too bright himself.”

“You and Iona are plotting this together, aren’t you? You have a thing with her.”    
He had no idea how he even managed to speak, let alone string together a sentence that made sense. 

The Hootsman blinked at him, the hand stroking his beard momentarily still. Then he burst into bellowing laughter. “Me and the princess?” His voice bounced off the naked stone walls, creating an eerie chorus. “Gods no, have you hit your head? She’s mad for him, I wouldn’t stand a chance even if I tried.” 

_ It didn’t look like that just now... _ _   
_ His roar ran out to a chuckle. He walked over to a corner of the room cloaked in darkness. Something rattled, then the sound of a wooden chest being opened echoed between the stone walls. The Hootsman retrieved something from the chest, then closed it again.

“Unlike him, she’s smart,” he continued. “She knows how to pick her allies. I’m one of them. Once Angus is king… ah well, I talk too much. Bad habit of mine.”

He turned and paced around the shackled sorcerer for a bit. In his hands lay an object Zargothrax couldn’t place immediately. Thin strips of leather, adorned with tiny crystals and splinters of metal, sparkling in the low light the lantern produced.    
“You sure you don’t want to give up? It’s no big deal. Just swear loyalty to the crown and you’re peachy. It’s not like there’s anyone left to reproach you for it.” He unfurled the leather, the single strands tinkling quietly against each other. 

Zargothrax stared at the whip, his brain finally putting the pieces together even as his vision swam in the flickering light.   
_ Oh. _

He hadn’t thought the cat o‘ nine tails was still in use.

The Hootsman observed him intently, the tiniest smile on his lips. “How much is this Ralathor truly worth?”

Zargothrax took a deep breath, knowing he would not get to do that again for a very long time, and closed his eyes. He’d cursed the hermit more often than he could count, but in the end, he’d only tried to help. If he was truly merciful, he’d end the sorcerer’s life before he could give in. Until then, well, that was his own, Zargothrax’, responsibility.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

The pain surpassed even his worst nightmares.    
The whip tore apart his skin like paper, ripping into his flesh as he dangled helplessly from the chains. He could feel his own blood soaking into the feeble remains of his tunic, searing hot, filling the room with the stench of iron. If he was being spoken to, he didn’t hear it over his own screams. 

As minutes stretched into eternity, the moments merely separated by the time it took to prepare the next swing, Zargothrax thought he could hear the prince of Fife laugh.   
  


\----

It was cold.    
His shaking breaths created clouds of steam in front of his face, the sweat on his body freezing to crystals, burning into his skin hotter than his blood ever could.    
The Hootsman had left, though when he did not know. There was a window, somewhere behind him, letting in the tiniest bit of light, and the icy winter winds. It illuminated nothing but his red robe and belt, crumpled carelessly on the floor, like a reminder of who he’d tried to be.

Zargothrax blinked into the room, the salty crusts of tears scraping at his skin. This wasn’t fair. How could the kingdom of Fife house such cruelty, such abhorrent crime?

It was so terribly cold.

Trying to change his position only let the ache in his back flare up again, though it took some pressure off his strained shoulders. Hot blood seeped into the fabric around his waist, the crusts on his back tearing once more with the slightest movement. His mind was still fuzzy, still wrapped in the protective haze it had built to endure the torture. 

But he could be proud.

He’d withstood. He hadn’t given up the hermit’s location. For now.   
Ralathor was out there, somewhere. He was a powerful sorcerer, and he was good at hiding. Maybe now that his so-called hero had fallen, he’d decide to take things into his own hands. 

Zargothrax himself would not see it. The cat o’ nine tails had been outlawed because it had the capacity to kill. If he was lucky, he froze or bled to death before they decided upon another session.    
Rest. Peace. Maybe he’d even see his friends again.   
He smiled, even as the tears ran freely now, tears of pain, of self-pity, of fear and hope for death at once. “Sorry Momma.” He barely recognized his own voice.    
She’d never find out what happened to him. Maybe that was for the best. Dying in the attack on Auchtermuchty would have been a fate far more merciful than to wither away down here, shackled and dirty, merely a toy to cruel men playing gods. “I’m so sorry I never came home again.”

“Such pathos. Impressive.”

He didn’t flinch. He barely had the energy to lift his head, why use it for theatrics?   
Princess Iona had changed into more practical pants and a short tunic, her boots seeming slightly too large on her slim legs. Still, the fabric accentuated her curves perfectly, no doubt making every man’s (and some women’s) heads turn as she walked through the castle.   
She let the door fall shut behind herself and walked up to the prisoner, close enough to inspect him, but out of range for any physical contact.

“This Ralathor must be very dear to your heart for you to suffer this gravely for him,” the princess said.

Zargothrax couldn’t help a laugh, though it was barely more than a wheeze. Breathing hurt. He’d received quite a few punches to his ribs in between. “Not really. He’s a bit of a cunt.”

The princess’ eyebrows shot up. “Truly? Then why do you insist upon making a martyr of yourself if you don’t even like him?”

A cramp ran through his body, swallowing everything in a red wave. His chest convulsed, torn between trying to cough and not breathing at all. He didn’t choke, though it seemed awfully close, and would have been a mercy. When the cramp ebbed off, a curtain of tears covered his sight, turning everything into a blur of greys.

“It wouldn’t be right,” he rasped. “I have nobody left. They’re all gone. I won’t soil their memory by acting like a coward.”

“All of them?”, the princess purred. “From what I just heard you still have family. Don’t you want to see them again?”

“And bring you straight to them? I’d rather rot here for eternity,” he growled.

The princess smiled at him. It was a breathtaking sight from up close. Every muscle in her face radiated grace and beauty.   
And yet, it did not reach her eyes. “That will hardly be necessary.”

For a terrible, terrible moment, he thought they’d figured out who he was, that they’d found his parents, that they were prisoners now, too, and would suffer should he not comply. He could not sacrifice his parents for Ralathor.    
If it truly came to this choice, the hermit had to get away on his own.

He flinched at the cold hand coming down on his shoulder, and even more at the magic pouring into his system.    
Zargothrax stared at the princess, unable to gather his thoughts. She was a sorceress after all? But he’d checked so thoroughly-

With a snap of her fingers, the shackles opened. If not for a quickly woven spell, he’d have simply collapsed on the floor, too weak to stand, muscles and tendons stiff from being held in position for so long. 

“Alright, listen up. We don’t have much time. The princess should wake up soon, that hammer is a lot stronger than I anticipated.”

Zargothrax blinked up at the figure. The clothes were the very same, but now sat on a much slimmer and less curvy body. The dark hair had curled at the tips, growing a shade darker. And assuming the princess hadn’t suddenly decided to wear a goatee, this was not princess Iona. 

“Ralathor?”

“No, Morag the dwarf princess.” He sneered. “Of course it’s me!” He dragged Zargothrax to his feet, once more giving some of his own magic to strengthen him. The rush of energy was nauseating, only after much search finding the last feeble traces of Zargothrax’ own magic.

“Good Gods, what have you done, you fool?”, the hermit hissed. “Did you want to kill yourself?”

“The prince primarily, but yes,” Zargothrax replied, too tired to argue. His back was screaming in agony, and even though the return of his magic was relieving, he was in no shape to go anywhere. “How- Why- What are you doing here?”

Ralathor stared at him, an uncanny mixture of annoyance and disbelief on his features.    
“I’m here to rescue you,” he replied wrily. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Oh.” Zargothrax blinked at him, then down at his own hands, his wrists nearly black with bruises. “Okay.”

Ralathor rubbed his forehead with his free hand, the other steadying the sorcerer in front of him. “Alright, listen. I didn’t break in here, hex the princess and have Angus- forget about it.” 

Zargothrax squinted at him. “That was you in the hall. You and Angus- Did you-”

Ralathor cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Shut your mouth and listen, we don’t have much time. I have a plan how we can possibly prevent this entire mess altogether. It involves time travel, and especially YOU actually getting something done. But first we need to get out of here. This place is warded against teleporting, so we need to find another-”

Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed, followed by incoherent voices. The Hootsman was easy to make out, as was prince Angus. The third was harder to place.   
Princess Iona was not known for raising her voice, let alone bellowing orders . Ralathor froze, his magic flaring up as he scanned the environment. “Oh shit!”

Zargothrax blinked at him. “This is not good, is it?”

“No it’s not! Fuck!” Ralathor more or less threw Zargothrax’ clothes at him. “Get dressed. I’ll send you back now.” He drew forth a knife that looked exactly like the Blade of Virtue. Ralathor pushed it into Zargothrax’ hands and then stepped back, powering up runes forged into the necklace he was wearing.

“Send me where?”

Ralathor didn’t answer. Blue light surrounded him, his magical aura slowly becoming visible even to the non-magical eye. Fascinated, Zargothrax also realized the hermit had runes  _ engraved  _ on his own body, shining through his clothes. “I don’t know how far I can send you back without a proper portal. Don’t run into yourself and by the Gods, don’t fuck this up, this is the last chance we have.”

Zargothrax stared down at the blade in his hands, his brain slowly going back to a working state. “Why don’t you come along?” Once again, no answer.

As prince Angus, the Hootsman, and a fuming Princess Iona stormed into the cell, they were blinded by a flare of blue light and a bang that made the walls shake. Iona screamed, as did her husband. Angus dove for cover behind the Hootsman, inadvertently felling his wife in the process.    
The barbarian cursed under his breath and turned to not take the blast head-on, using his battle axe as a shield from the onslaught. The smell of a thunderstorm hung in the air, before it vanished abruptly, leaving only the stench of blood and mold.

As the light faded, they could make out a slim figure in princess Iona’s riding clothes, kneeling on the floor in obvious exhaustion.    
Ralathor slowly raised his head, ghostly pale and with sweat dripping off his brow.    
“Greetings your majesty. I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings go to @lavender_persimmon305 / tellmeoflegends, because I recycled the dungeon scene I wrote for her story. I know I'm evil, thanks


	16. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a last effort, Ralathor sends his hero through time to try and stop what seems inevitable. But where does he end up?

Even if Ralathor had said nothing, being thrown through time and space had a way of making itself known in the worst way possible. The brain, even that of a trained sorcerer, cannot comprehend the ways of the universe, and merely translated it into a nauseating swirl of colors, of heat and cold, sound and smell, impressions too fast to process.

The landing was less than dignified. Zargothrax folded like a leaf when he hit the ground, his scream only dampened by the lack of breath as he rolled over the cold grass. His tumble was abruptly stopped by the collision with a bush that scattered leaves everywhere in protest.

For a while, he just lay there, trying to get air into his lungs while every inch of his body screamed in agony. The magic Ralathor had supplied him with was enough to dampen the worst of it, but it didn’t change the fact that he had been tortured for what may have been hours or weeks, he was exhausted, freezing and his back was bleeding enough to soak his robe. 

After what felt like hours, Zargothrax slowly fought himself up onto his hands and knees, meekly shoving branches out of his face. The light made his head hurt, but after a few moments, he adjusted to the setting, using a bit of Ralathor’s magic to shield his eyes.    
  


The sun was setting over a landscape he’d thought he’d never see again. 

Auchtermuchty’s proud spire stood high over the town, easily visible from all directions like a beacon welcoming the students home.The library’s windows were intact, reflecting the glow of the setting sun, thin pillars of smoke indicating the presence of comfy hearth fires, ready to embrace the evening.    
It was beautiful, but failed to cheer him up.

He recognized this sunset. 

He’d watched it through the classroom’s window in the second floor in his last class - astronomy, not exactly his strong suit. He’d stared at the horizon, dreaming about his next big prank, whether he should invite Jelisia or Gideon to the Yule ball, about his future as a mage, swinging a quill between his fingers and wondering absently why there seemed to be so many birds on the horizon.

A shadow rushed over him, nearly too swiftly to be noticed. The eagle was soaring high up, not easy to spot as anything but a randomly passing bird if you didn’t know better.

Zargothrax got to his feet, his frozen and stiff toes welcoming the change from the rough stone floor to soft grass, even in autumn. He reeled before he could fully raise himself, his vision vanishing in static. He broke into a cough, tasting blood, and nearly landed on his knees again. Every breath stabbed his chest like a blade. 

Speaking of blades, where was the one Ralathor had given him?

It took a few moments until his magic had balanced itself out enough to be used, but then the blade was easy to spot. It radiated energy, stronger than a weapon had a right to.    
Where had Ralathor even GOTTEN this?   
Picking it up without falling over was a feat, but eventually, he managed to stash it into his belt. When had he put on a belt? Had Ralathor given it to him?   
Didn’t matter, probably.

He needed to warn them.    
If he was fast enough he may be able to save them. If they were prepared, the knights of Crail would not stand a chance.

He had landed in the middle of a herb garden, somewhere on the outskirts of the university. The paths created a complex spiraling pattern as to take as little space as possible yet give access to all plantations, and it seemed to take him ages to get anywhere. Every step made him nauseous, his ribs and back pulsing in the rhythm of his heart. He kept his eyes fixed on the spire. If he looked down, he’d fall and not get up. 

He needed to make it.

Get to the main buildings. Find the others. Warn them.

He had to.

“Master McKenzie, may I inquire the reason you’re wearing a magister’s robes?”

He nearly bumped head-first into the figure, too focused on setting one foot before the other to care about outside distractions.

Azerion stared at him with the usual contempt, which changed to confusion and shock quickly when he took in the details of the young sorcerer before him. “What in the- What have you  _ done _ you fool?”

“Oh thank the Gods, we need to warn them, the magisters, the Knights of Crail are coming, Prince Angus, he’s-”

Azerion grabbed his arm and shook him harshly. “I told them you were bad news when you came here!”

He dragged Zargothrax across the patch of grass, heading for the library. He didn’t care that the young sorcerer could barely walk, needing all his focus to stay on his feet lest he be dragged forward on his knees instead.    
“This is it! How  _ dare _ you masquerade as a magister?”

“The Knights of Crail will attack us, you need to warn the magisters!”

Azerion spun, white sparks flying from his fingertips and missing Zargothrax’ face by inches.

“Spare your lies for someone who cares! You’ve wreaked enough havoc in our proud university, this time you’ve gone too far! When the magisters return from their trance, they’ll take on your case. Again. Until then I’ll make sure you won’t- ouch!”

Zargothrax stumbled back, hands ablaze with blue flames. The flame flickered with his shaking hands, but gave off enough of a threat that Azerion reconsidered touching it.    
“You don’t understand.”

Azerion stared at him, aghast. “Whose magic is that? How do you-”

“The Knights of Crail are coming,” Zargothrax repeated. “Warn the magisters.” 

“You’re out of your mind.”

The shield flared with blue light before Zargothrax could even realize Azerion had struck.   
Despite Ralathor’s magic taking autonomous action to protect him, the attack carried so much force it made Zargothrax stagger. He caught himself on his knees instead of landing on his torn back, which would surely have paralyzed him.    
Somehow Zargothrax got to his feet. He threw a fireball at Azerion, that sizzled out before even touching the sorcerer’s robe, and ran for his life. He could only pray Azerion would not try to stop him again.

“I’ll have you expelled for this, McKenzie!”

_ As if.  _ He couldn’t help the hysterical giggle that burst from his mouth. That was the least of his problems right now.

As soon as he’d rounded a corner, his jog turned into a stumble. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch breath that did just not want to flow properly and simultaneously listen if he was being followed. 

Another shadow passed overhead. He didn’t turn to look. 

The cafeteria was right there. Sylphea had to be there now. 

He needed to get there.

The building seemed miles away, every step getting heavier and heavier, his chest too full to breathe. The chilly autumn air seemed to fuel the fire instead of cooling it. 

“Huh, walking all alone? How unusual of your lot.”

He didn’t even have time to register the shadow before a hand closed around his throat and he was slammed against the brick wall. His back howled in pain, and so did he, though it came out as a whimper. 

“Hey P, look what I found.”

His eyes were swimming with tears of pain, but how could he forget the voice that had accompanied the worst hours of his life?    
The Hootsman smirked, holding him in the air with one hand as if he weighed no more than a doll. The second silhouette was shorter, dressed in a dark uniform that could blend well with the shadows.

“Oh great. Another one to alert everyone.” Ser Proletius looked around nervously, his short sword drawn and ready, not even looking at the captive. 

“Eh, he can barely keep himself upright, I don’t see him running for help anytime soon.” The Hootsman mustered him, a frown appearing on his face.    
“The hell exploded into your face?”

“Experiment,” Zargothrax managed to croak. “Alchemy.”

The Hootsman snorted with amusement, which was credited with a slap to his arm from Ser Proletius. “Shush! We don’t have time for this.” He turned to go, then reconsidered, pointing his sword at Zargothrax. “You. Where do your magisters reside?”

He’d rather die than deliver his Magisters to these scoundrels, but unfortunately, a heroic death would not exactly help their situation. “The library. Top floor,” he lied. He couldn’t  _ breathe- _

“Hoots, please.”

The Hootsman rolled his eyes, but relaxed his grip around the sorcerer’s throat.

“And where  _ is  _ the library?”, Ser Proletius inquired impatiently.

“The big building with the spire,” Zargothrax explained, grateful for the tiny amount of air he could draw in. “Who are you-”

Ser Proletius nodded and turned to go. “Thanks.” 

“You believe him?” The Hootsman dropped Zargothrax like a broken toy, but didn’t yet follow the knight, frowning down at the sorcerer. The hint of confusion in his voice told of utter, horrified disbelief.

Proletius peered around the corner, hiding his sword behind his leg. When he realized the Hootsman wasn’t following, he sighed and retreated deeper into the alley again.   
“Really? No. But it’s worth a try.” He looked around again, his hood giving him a sinister look. “Come on, this place is giving me the creeps.”

The Hootsman chuckled. “Fair enough.”

His fur-clad boot moved faster than a striking eagle. Stars exploded in front of Zargothrax’ eyes, and the world went dark once more.

Sylphea had just sat down across from Gideon when Zargothrax stumbled into the hall. Sylphea shot to her feet, forgetting her dinner at once. She didn’t know where to look first - his tear-streaked, dirty face with blood dripping from a gash on his temple, the mud-splattered red robe, or his general state of disarray. She ran to meet him and he collapsed into her arms, a sob of relief escaping him as he wrapped his arms around her neck. He was shaking so badly it was a miracle he had made it here. Sylphea gently sat him down on the bench but didn’t let go.

The Gods knew he needed a friendly hand right now.

“Z, what in the world happened to you?”

“I missed you so much, I thought I’d never see you again….” 

“What in the- Gods, what did you do?” He felt too thin. He’d never been heavyset, but now she could feel every bone in his body. What could have happened in the mere minutes they’d been apart?

“Hootsman got me,” he slurred. “We have to go. They’ll be here soon-”

“Is- is he drunk?”, Gideon asked uncomfortably. The table had fallen silent, every head in the vicinity turned towards them.

“We need to- the Knights. They’ll be here soon. Gotta warn the magisters- the hermit said-” His words ran out into exhausted obscurity. 

“Ooookay, I don’t know  _ what  _ you cooked up again, but it certainly backfired,” Soriel commented with an awkward laugh. 

Sylphea only shook her head. She gently pushed the grimy curls from her friend’s face, taking in the sight they’d been hiding.   
“Z, what happened to your  _ eye _ ?”

“You were dead,” he muttered. “All of you. They slaughtered everyone.” 

Sylphea had grown up as a knight’s daughter. She’d seen minds break, men who’d witnessed one too many battles, spending the remainder of their days hidden away, afraid, plagued by nightmares.

She’d just never expected to see that haunting emptiness in her best friend’s eyes.

“Oh fuck, okay, no, nonono, it’s fine.” Sylphea wrapped him in a tight hug, trying to dampen the uncontrolled tremors running through him. “We’re all okay. We’re alive. We’re fine. Everyone is fine.”

“They’re coming,” he repeated. “They’re coming, they’re coming, they’re coming-”

Had he been working on a water-based spell? His tunic was  _ soaked _ .    
She kissed his messy hair, rocking him in her arms like she had her younger brothers so many times. “It’s alright. It’s alright, sweetie, everything’s fine. Breathe. It’s okay.”

Gideon’s fork noisily hit the table. When Sylphea looked over, his face had turned the color of volcanic ash. 

“Uhm, Sylph? Your hands...”

“What?” 

“Ah, I knew I’d find you here.” Azerion rudely shoved aside a few curious first years as he strolled up to the table. “Miss Muness, please assist me in bringing Master McKenzie into detention.”

Zargothrax rested his cheek on Sylphea’s shoulder. “They’re coming,” he repeated softly. 

“Suuuure.” Azerion rolled his eyes. “Miss Muness, I would  _ hate  _ to have you tried as an accomplice to his shenaniga-”

Sylphea didn’t listen. She stared down at her palm, and the blood coating it.

So much blood. 

“What in the world happened-”

“Miss Muness, there is ample time to discuss the details of this-”

“Shut UP!”

The table fell silent. The entire room did. Jelisia grabbed Azerion’s shoulder and nearly threw him into the onlookers. “Let him  _ talk _ .” She squatted down next to the bench and laid a hand in Z’s lap, gently taking his hand. His knuckles were scraped, and she could see the edges of deep, black bruises around his wrist. 

“What are you trying to tell us?”

“They’re coming,” he repeated wearily.

“Who is?”

“The Knights of Crail. The Hootsman.” He sighed, his eyes closing. “Prince Angus.”

“That’s it, he’s snapped,” Azerion sighed.   
If there was an answer, it was drowned out by the explosion.    
The shock wave rattled the entire building, raining dust and mortar on them. For a moment, it was silent, every face showing the same expression of numbed confusion.

Then the doors slammed open and the carnage began. 

Screams filled the air as the Knights of Crail poured into the room, their blades tearing into anyone unlucky enough to stand nearby.

“Oh FUCK!”

Sylphea threw Z over her shoulder as if he weighed nothing - now more true than ever - and motioned for the others to follow as she darted for the door to the kitchen. 

“Everyone out of here!”, Jelisia hollered. “Retreat, regroup, we can take them!” She grabbed Gideon and Soriel and dragged them after Sylphea.    
Gideon cast a quick rune. The room filled with green smoke, making not only the knights of Crail cough and curse. “Shit!”

“Gideon, storm rune!”, Sylphea yelled over her shoulder. A knight tore through two older students who’d tried to stop him with improvised weapons made from cutlery and a quick transfiguration. Gideon came to a sliding halt, his face scrunching up in concentration as he cast a rune. It blazed in golden light - and then died. 

The knight laughed, dampened under his armour, and charged. 

“Get him out of here!” Sylphea nearly threw the weakened Zargothrax into Jelisia’s arms as she reached for the sword still strapped to her belt. 

“No- nononono,” Zargothrax muttered. He fought against Jelisia’s grip, trying to get to his feet. “She’s gonna die, I can’t lose her again-”

Jelisia wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him in the direction of the kitchen. “You’re not helping her like this. Move!”

Soriel covered their escape by catapulting a knight into the ceiling when his lifting spell ended up a bit too strong. A smirk spread on his face as he realized the possibilities.

“Go, I’ll take it from here!”

The next knight went flying, crashing into three of his comrades. Soriel cheered. “Strike!”

His joy was shortlived. Jelisia tried to warn him, but by the time her cry echoed over the room, the blade had already pierced his back. Soriel slowly looked down on the bloody tip protruding from his chest.    
“Oh.” 

The knight drew out his sword and Soriel crumbled.    
Jelisia’s scream was drowned in the noise.

“Well that was-”

The knight didn’t get to finish his sentence. Sylphea’s boots collided with his face and rammed him into the floor like a striking eagle. She landed on her feet, turning the momentum into power as her blade scraped along another attacker’s, sending sparks flying.

“Out of here!”

She kicked another knight, her movements faster and stronger than any man thanks to the magic woven into her armour, and dashed for the door. “Gideon! The rune, hurry!”

“S-Sure!”

The rune seemed to take ages to form, every single stroke like being hand-painted into the air. His golden magic illuminated the knights charging at them. Sylphea dove through the door as Gideon activated the spell and the room was swallowed by the forces of nature themselves. 

They slammed the door shut, not bothering to lock it, and hurried on. The screams were everywhere, in the hall, in the streets, on the balconies.   
The roars of the knights, the spells being thrown, the cries of the eagles overhead, it all blended into a mind-numbing cacophony.   
The ground shook with every new explosion.

“The spire,” Z muttered. “The spire will collapse.”    
“We’ll take the tunnel,” Sylphea commanded. 

“We’re going to run? What about the others?”, Gideon protested. “Gods, Soriel-”

“We can’t help the others if we’re dead,” Jelisia reminded him. She changed her grip around the nearly unconscious Zargothrax, lifting him up until he rested against her. Her sleeve was soaked with the blood seeping through his robe, but she did not show if it distressed her. 

“But we don’t even know where the tunnel is!”, Gideon called over the noise of a new explosion. The air was vibrating with a low rumbling, like the groan of an enormous beast moving in slumber. Or awakening. “It’s just a story!”

“No it’s not!” Sylphea grabbed his arm and dragged him through the kitchen and into the next corridor. Near the pantry, there was a wall of massive, grey stones. Jelisia caught up to them just as Sylphea tapped the stones with the hilt of her sword.   
The wall rippled like water in a pond and a door became visible.

“Where do you think we always got the snacks?”

Behind the door was a roughly hewn staircase, leading into the darkness. Gideon did not get the chance to hesitate before being pushed through the portal. They descended the stairs as hastily as they could, more stumbling than walking, Sylphea’s hastily summoned light illuminating dusty stone walls and scraps of food waste that had found its way down here. Rats scattered from the glow of their flame. 

“Let me take him,” Gideon offered. He threw Zargothrax’ arm over his shoulder, flinching at the blood soaking into his sleeve. “Good Gods what  _ happened _ to you, man?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he mumbled.

“At this point I’m ready to believe anything,” Jelisia said. “Where to? We need to bring you to safety, and then help the others. The magisters will be entirely defenseless during their trance. We need to find them and-”

“Down!” Sylphea dragged them into a crevice, using her armoured back as a shield as a shock wave tore through the corridor, filling the air with dust as every particle in their bodies seemed to vibrate with the noise.

The rumbling seemed to swallow the entire world, followed by a cloud of dust that covered every surface, inside and out.   
Only when they could breathe again, the growling of tons of stone barely a faint memory, did they dare move.   
“My ears are ringing,” Gideon mumbled. He tried to get up, but only fell over to the other side, too dizzy to stand. Eventually, Sylphea straightened, her red hair now nearly white, and helped Jelisia and Gideon to their feet. The corridor was covered in dust and stones, but the walls were still intact, set deeply into the earth. 

“That was the spire,” Sylphea said quietly.    
They stared at each other in anguished silence for a long time. Only Jelisia had the courage to speak the horrible truth. “Whoever was in the spire and the dining hall is gone now. Friend or foe.”

The silence filled the cavern like icy water, enveloping, swallowing them.

“We need to go,” Sylphea said. “We can’t win against that many enemies, not with Z in that state and not alone. Let’s get out of here.”

Jelisia nodded silently. With help from her brother, she picked Z up, who hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d been dropped. Jelisia couldn’t see his injuries but she could feel that they were severe. He had to be in absolute agony, and was bleeding steadily.    
He needed treatment, and soon.   
It would have been no shame to simply pass out from exhaustion and pain, but to their surprise, Z was still awake as they advanced down the corridor, though he could barely put one foot in front of the other.    
“Wish I could’ve taken you to the ball,” he muttered. “Make everyone jealous. So pretty.” He leaned his head against Jelisia’s shoulder and smiled. 

“What, me or my brother?”, she joked tensely.

There was a long pause. “Both.”

Gideon couldn’t hide his laughter, the absurdity of the situation long past any description. “It would be an honor.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“The Northern Pavilion,” Sylphea said. She ventured ahead, stopping at a wall and listening intently. “We need to cross the gardens, there’s another tunnel on the other side.”

“Not the pavilion.”

“What?”

Zargothrax straightened up, his blood-splattered face set in an expression Sylphea had never seen on him before. His eyes were ablaze with blue light, a magic that was clearly not his own. “Not the Northern Pavilion,” he repeated sternly. 

“Why? It’s the safest place-”

“Because I’m there. Past me, that is.”

The three friends stared at him, unsure how to respond. 

Sylphea took a deep breath. “Okay? Then where should we go?”

“The catacombs,” Jelisia answered before Z could even draw a breath to do so. “They won’t be looking for anyone there and people are afraid of them anyway. I know the way.”

“Uhm, am I the only one who thinks that’s a  _ terrible _ plan?”, Gideon asked, wringing his hands.

“It is, dear children, but young Jelisia is right. In times of need, one can not be picky.” 

They spun. Jelisia choked down a scream, automatically shoving her brother and Z behind herself.

From the dust still hanging in the air emerged a ghostly figure. Her hair and dress were white like snow, softly illuminated by mysterious lights. A small dark figure walked by her side, a shadow, silent and as untouched by the chaos as only a ghost could be.   
The very queen of the fae would not be deserving of an entry more majestic.

“Oh we’re so fu-”

“No need to swear, Master McIntyre,” the figure reproached him gently. “This is still a school. But we need make haste. The battle today is lost, but there is no need to add another life to the fallen.”

She stepped into the light of Sylphea’s magical fire and smiled at them. “Come now. If we want to get away unpursued, there are still measures to be taken.”

Gideon nearly fell to his knees, and even Sylphea couldn’t stifle a sob of relief.    
“Lady Moira! Thank the Gods!”

The head sorceress smiled at them. The light revealed her to be less pristine than she’d seemed: The white glow was the dust that had settled on her black hair and the red robes, making them shimmer like ice. Her robe was stained and her face was spotted with dirt and even blood. The figure next to her meowed and then jumped up on her arm, revealing itself to be the black cat that had inhabited Lady Moira’s office since they could remember, adorned with a green scarf around its neck. The turquoise eyes watched them curiously, before it settled on the sorceress’ shoulders.

“But- how are you here? The trance-”

“I was… late,” Lady Moira responded softly. “In many ways. Come now, my dear students, there is nothing left for us here and young Zargothrax is in need of treatment.”

Lady Moira took ahead, leading them through the tunnels. A few times, they came eerily close to the outside world, being able to hear what was being spoken. The cries and sounds of battle had fallen silent. Peering through the ventilation cracks in the tunnel’s walls - the few meters it did leave the confines of tightly packed earth - the setting sun fell over an empty city, only the knights of Crail strolling through the rubble-covered streets as if they belonged to them.

The party stopped dead in their tracks as they heard a familiar voice.

“A-Azerion, my lord.”

Jelisia stepped up to one of the tiny arrow slits and peered out. 

Azerion cowered between a posse of knights. His nose was broken, blood seeping into his blond mustache. In front of him stood a bald knight of Crail, wearing armour in blue and red that differed slightly from those around him. But even if he’d been wearing rags, he would have stood out against the shiniest knights. This was their commander, no doubt.    
“I will make you an offer,” the man said calmly. “Swear loyalty to the throne and your life will be spared. We will need a guide to count the fallen and rebuild this town for the glory of our kingdom.”

Azerion hesitated, the fear in his face nearly physically tangible.   
“Bastard,” Jelisia whispered. “Fucking treacherous cunt!” Sylphea pushed her aside, trying to see as well, though she could barely reach the arrow hole. 

Azerion stared up at the knights, numb with terror. But then, his expression changed, returning to the disdain that seemed to be his only emotion when dealing with students.    
“We already served the throne,” he rasped. “Auchtermuchty has been loyal to Dundee for centuries. Swear loyalty to Angus, though, after this betrayal? I’d rather die.”

“Well, that is your decision then.” The commander of the knights plunged a dagger into Azerion’s throat. Both Jelisia and Sylphea gasped in horror as they saw Azerion collapse, blood spreading on the ground and soaking into his robe.

“Make this offer to any survivor,” the commander ordered. “If they swear loyalty to the prince, let them live and round them up. If not, kill them. Back to work, lads, we don’t have all night.”

Gideon stared at them with a numbed kind of horror. He didn’t need to see the event to know what had happened. “Gods, I didn’t like him but-”

They turned to face Lady Moira, who watched them with a somber expression. The head magistra closed her eyes for a moment, pain sweeping her features, before she turned to go.   
“Come. There is no benefit in remaining.”

Lady Moira led them out of town without further incident, for the first time truly showing off the immense power she had. If need be, they could have simply walked across the courtyard and out of the main gate, her spells making them invisible and untouchable. 

The catacombs lay in the middle of an old graveyard, on the western side of the town’s wall. The graveyard had been abandoned and ridded of bodies many years ago, its borders being overtaken by foliage, trees sprouting unhindered and cloaking the area in soft shadows.    
But the gravestones still stood. Some were cracked, but restoration efforts had been made to preserve the most beautiful of them, painstakingly repainting the ornaments, mending broken stones and deciphering the inscriptions to honour those that had once rested here.

The gate was guarded by two stone dogs, who - according to legend - had been the first to be buried here. Their eyes were made of colored glass, and shimmered in the setting sun. Overhead, eagles circled, but they did not see the dirty and exhausted figures making their way across the graveyard, shielded by the trees and Lady Moira’s magic.

The entrance to the catacombs was a simple grey mausoleum, the carvings in its pillars long washed away by the seasons and replaced with scrawls and cuts by bored necromancers.

Stepping through the door, a long, winding staircase descended into the deep. With a flick of her wrist, Lady Moira lit the torches lining the walls. Their multi-colored light gave the stone walls a slightly more pleasant appearance as they descended the staircase. 

The first chamber was the biggest, and most often used. Here, too, the walls were lined with scrawls by practitioners, most of them not subject-related. 

_ Urguz was here and did not like it _ , proclaimed the wall to their right.

The torches blazed up as they entered the underground chamber. Sylphea’s eyes automatically fell upon an inscription that was clearly cut in with magic.    
_ I predict that Naz will flunk astronomy.  _ Below it, another hand had added:  _ Aleco sucks at divination because I passed! _

Zargothrax had told her about the catacombs before, but Sylphea had never been down here. To be honest, she thought it was creepy. She was an elemental mage, relying on the life of nature. Dead things were… different. She could handle it, but that didn’t make it comfortable.

The rush of adrenaline fading, she felt the exhaustion of a long day. The floor however was covered in things she did not want to inspect further, so instead she looked around for a seat.   
She was about to plop down on a large brick near the wall, when Lady Moira pointedly cleared her throat.

Sylphea looked around and found an inscription on the brick:  _ Vestarion trapped a demon behind this rock. Do Not Touch _

Sylphea decided to sit somewhere else.

“There’s a room to the right. It’s hidden, just tap the wall twice.”

Not only Sylphea jumped at the voice. Zargothrax hung limply between Jelisia and Gideon, but his gaze had cleared a bit, making the injury to his left eye even more prominent. What in the world had happened to him?

“Oh Gods, I thought you were dead for a moment,” Gideon joked nervously. 

“Kinda feels like it.” He let out a dry cough that was probably meant to be a laugh. “But I guess that would be too easy.”

“I swear to the Gods, if you say that again I will-” Jelisia took a deep breath. “Fuck’s sake. Sorry, Lady Moira.”

She didn’t receive an answer. Lady Moira was gone.

“Where-”

Something grumbled, the sound of the very earth moving. Sylphea automatically drew her sword, and Gideon had half written his first rune when they realized it was the sound of a door. Warm light fell on the stone floor, coming from a room that had been invisible only a moment before.

They carefully advanced inside. The room was surprisingly large, spacious enough for about a dozen people. Instead of the grime-covered floor, it was nearly spotless, the dirt of whatever experiments took place down here stopping at the door. There were a few couches, a table with six chairs, a shelf, even a cupboard that had been inscribed with temperature-altering runes for storing food. The walls however were covered in much the same scrawls as outside, but much less hidden, and quite a bit more crude.

_ Professor Duntangen slept with a banshee, _ the wall proclaimed. Said professor must have left many years ago, but the line still stood, untouched by time. Sylphea couldn’t stifle a helpless giggle. If she’d known it was this comfy, she’d come here earlier.

Lady Moira had already begun to clear a couch, spreading out a clean white linen sheet over it. Jelisia and Gideon carried Zargothrax over to her. When trying to set him down, the injured sorcerer protested, rolling on his stomach with what seemed to be the last strength he had spared.

Sylphea let herself fall heavily on a chair. Her ankle hurt, probably from the overexertion of kicking a fully armoured knight in the face, but she would not even mention it before he was seen to. 

_Cranwinston ate three spice cakes meant for me. Bastard, _the wall across from her said. Next to it, said Cranwinston had added: _You shouldn’t have let them stand around for a week then!_

Lady Moira sat down next to her, despite the situation the epitome of grace. The cat jumped into her lap, watching the situation without comment, as cats usually did.

Lady Moira stroked the cat, which yawned and curled up, blinking at the students. “Master McKenzie, I think it is time for you to tell us what has transpired.”

“Yes, I would like to hear that too!”, Jelisia muttered. “Gideon, get me the jars from that shelf. Does anyone have a knife?”

Sylphea wordlessly handed her the dagger from her belt. 

“Sorry,” Jelisia said to Zargothrax. He just nodded, eyes half-closed in exhaustion. With a swift cut, she opened the robe covering his back.

Gideon screamed.

“What the entire FU-”

Sylphea was on her feet immediately, falling down next to her friend and grasping his bruised hand. She had so many questions, but none would come out.   
Instead, she kissed his shaggy hair and held on, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

His back was a mangled mess. Something - she knew immediately that it must have been a whip, a nasty one at that - had shredded the skin and then flesh under it, creating deep gouges that were steadily spilling blood the color of red wine. 

Jelisia stared down at the injuries. She took a deep breath and knelt down next to her patient, her magic flowing over him, shutting off the pain receptors one by one. Zargothrax relaxed immediately, his cramped shoulders dropping, eyes closing with a relieved sigh.

“Thank you.”

“What happened?”, Gideon asked. He’d blanched, dropping the pot he’d been holding, its doom merely avoided by Lady Moira’s quick reflexes.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I think I can safely assure you that we will,” Lady Moira responded. 

“Absolutely,” Sylphea said. “No matter what.”

Z looked at her, looked at Lady Moira by the table and Gideon who had taken the pot back, desperately clutching it in an attempt to not freak out, and rested his cheek on Sylphea’s hands. “Alright then.”

\----

_ Academy of Sorcery and Witchcraft, Auchtermuchty, five years prior _

Zargothrax smoothed his hands down the front of his new white robes, trying to dry his damp palms on the soft fabric as he walked towards Magistra Hollywell's office. At breakfast, he'd managed a few bites of his porridge and a couple of nibbles at his dry toast - butter was not an option with the way his stomach was twisted with anxiety.    
Jelisia had whipped up a mug of mint tea, saying it would both soothe his belly and freshen his breath, which had sent a fresh rush of nervous adrenaline through him at the notion of potentially disgusting the head of the school with stinky breath. 

"Honestly, Z, you really don't need to worry," Sylphea tried to calm him, rolling her eyes with a laugh to try to show him that his meeting wasn't that big of a deal. He shot her a wry look, one dark eyebrow arched.

"Oh no, nothing at all to worry about! Just the possibility that Lady Moira will take one look at me, snap her fingers to get my luggage to appear at my feet, and tell me to get the hell out of her school! Oh, and that if I ever attempt to do any sort of magic, even just changing the temperature of my food, she'll have me fed to her pet dragon." 

Gideon looked up from the book he was reading, his mouth full of potatoes and eggs. "Nah, mate, it'll take more than one look for her to make that decision. Besides, I don't think she's got a pet dragon. An owl, maybe?" 

Jelisia threw a scone at her brother, who laughed and picked it up off the table. "I'm just kidding. The Lady is actually really nice. She's strict, sure, but running a place like this, I think you have to be. She's fair, she'll give you a chance." 

Gideon turned his attention to buttering the scone, leaving the newest wizard of Auchtermuchty to brood into his oatmeal.

Now he was standing before the tall doors to the sorceress' inner sanctum, eyeing the carvings of constellations over a stone circle, actual gemstones set into the wood for the stars. Their facets winked in the torchlight, almost as brightly as the eyes of the cat that was curled around the statue of an owl beside the portals.    
Its fur was inky black and gleaming, and it regarded him with bored turquoise eyes, yawning once and then curling back around the stone bird to resume its nap. The owl's eyes suddenly lit up with purple light and the head turned to face Zargothrax, making him jump a good distance in shock.    
"You may enter at anytime, Master McKenzie," Lady Moira's voice told him from the statue.   
He let out a shaky laugh before opening one of the doors, hands trembling so badly he nearly slipped off the knob twice.    
The office was a large, open room with tall windows on both sides to let in the early morning light, the curtains framing them draping to the floor in folds of soft, mellow gold velvet. The hue of the fabric picked up the honeyed accents of the wooden floors and walls, broad expanses of thick carpets in shades of red and gold stretching away from the door to the large wooden desk at the far end of the room. Bookshelves that reached the ceiling were a multi-colored backdrop of knowledge, a few knickknacks crowded amongst the tomes here and there. A pair of large, cushioned chairs were set in front of the carved behemoth of a desk that somehow didn't overwhelm the sight of the slender woman seated behind it. 

The Head Magistra of Auchtermuchty tucked her quill pen back into its holder and set aside her paperwork to study the youth standing just inside the door. 

Her smile was welcoming, and Zargothrax took that as a good sign, though he couldn't seem to make his feet move as she stood to walk to another set of chairs by one of the windows, a tea service set on a table between them.    
Instead of a gleaming set of silver pots, this was a simple grouping of a sturdy, dark blue pot, a creamer shaped like a cow, squat jars of honeys and sugar, and two mugs with owls and cats painted on them. A plate of biscuits, some frosted with chocolate, others delicate sandwiches that smelled of almonds and rose jelly, sat there also.

"Come and sit, Master McKenzie," Lady Moira invited, settling in one of the chairs, her crimson robes glittering with the golden runes embroidered on them, silently telling those who knew their language of the lady's power. She didn't wait for him to comply as she started pouring the tea, the rich amber liquid falling with a soothing gurgle into the mugs.    
"I'll let you dress your own, if you like," she offered, adding cream and two spoons of sugar into her own cup. Zargothrax took in a breath and let it out, forcing himself to move at a normal pace across the rugs before lowering himself into a chair, the faint scent of lavender and balsam rising from the cushions. 

The slam of the heavy doors closing sounded though like a coffin lid in his ears.   
"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, clearing his throat when his voice only came out as a raspy croak.    
Moira leaned back in her chair after stirring her tea and crossed her legs as she took a drink. "I trust you didn't sleep well last night?", she asked blandly, the question surprising him, as usually it was inquiring if one had had a pleasant evening. 

"No, ma'am, I didn't," he answered honestly, carefully picking up his own drink, worried he’d spill something with how badly he was trembling.   
She nodded. "Good. That tells me that you are, indeed, aware of the importance of your situation and what occurred with your arrival here." 

He swallowed, feeling the color drain out of his face. Would she send him away now? Maybe she actually would hand him over to Sire Equestrion for beheading. 

“I’m really sorry I caused such a ruckus-”, he started, but the lady waved him off.

“We will speak of the unicorn later. I am quite interested how you managed to befriend it, beyond what you already told us.” There was a sparkle in her eyes as she added: “And the details of how it feels to bond with such a shy, magnificent creature. This honor has been withheld from me so far.”

He blinked, taking a sip from his tea to hide his confusion. “Um, sure.”

"Very well. Tell me about these transfiguration spells you've managed to set on yourself," the sorceress requested. Her bright green eyes regarded him over the rim of her mug before she lowered it, wrapping her fingers around the pottery and setting the blue stone in her ring to glittering.

Zargothrax took a gulp of his tea, the liquid soothingly warm to the dryness of his throat, and he bit his lips, trying to figure out where to start.    
"I’m aware it’s not… proper to do magic without real training or a mentor,” he admitted. He wondered how she’d react to his less than fortunate situation. “It’s just… I've always felt like I wasn't exactly how I should be-"    
Moira sat forward, her legs uncrossing as she shook her head with a concerned frown. She reached out, her hand just shy of touching his, but respecting his space.    
"No. No, that's not what I meant," she said quickly. "That's not any of my business, and I apologize that you thought I was prying into the cause of your spells. No, Zargothrax, what I meant was: how did you do it? Changing a teacup into a mouse is one thing, but what you've done is far more complicated...and dangerous. I remember your mother when she was here, though we didn't really have the opportunity to interact. Her talent may not have been what it could have, or should have, been, but it was there. Yours has already surpassed it, even without the formal training we can give you." She tilted her head, her smile sad. "What you've done is quite brave. Foolhardy," she added firmly, fixing him with a sober frown to let him know that she wouldn't tolerate him putting himself or his fellow classmates in danger for his own gain. "But nonetheless brave." 

He blinked at her, confused. "You- you're not going to make me reverse what I've done?"

Moira's eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled softly, a hint of sympathy glowing around her very aura. "We are what we are, Master McKenzie. Sometimes we're not born the way we ought to be, but what's important is that we accept ourselves in whatever shape we're in, yes?" He nodded, loosening the white-knuckled grip he had on his cup. 

_ Thank the Gods. _

Moira crossed her legs again, leaning back. "What I will ask of you, though, is that you not experiment on yourself anymore, while you attend our school.” She put her teacup aside to clasp her hands on her knees, returning to a stern expression. "I don't want you accidentally causing harm to yourself or the other residents of Auchtermuchty. If there is something that you feel needs experimentation or investigation, no matter the subject matter of the magic, I want you to discuss with either with one of your teachers or with me. Can you agree to this?" 

Zargothrax nodded. "Yes, ma'am.” 

Only after a moment did the implication of her words register in his mind. “I can stay?!" 

Moira laughed, her face lighting up once more, and she extended her hand to shake his. "Welcome to the Auchtermuchty School, Master McKenzie." 

He laughed in return, feeling all the tension draining out of him at the cool clasp of her hand around his, the lavender brush of her magic bright to his senses. He exhaled shakily and let himself slump back in his chair for a moment. “Thank you.”

Moira smiled softly. “As I said, I prefer not to waste talent, and your experiments, while foolish, were not motivated by ill will.” He swallowed and nodded, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

"Now then," Moira began, reaching for one of the pillowy sandwich cookies. "Tell me how you did these transfigurations, please." 

Zargothrax accepted a chocolate biscuit from the plate she offered, relaxing into the comfy chair as he began his explanation.


	17. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People are alive, hooray!  
...Some of them at least.  
Now what?

“I hate to be THAT guy but… do you believe him?”    
If Sylphea’s eyes could have shot lightning bolts, Gideon would have been a scorched piece of tinder before he finished the sentence.

“Of course I believe him! How can you not?!”

He looked down at the pot he was still cradling, now devoid of function. “I don’t want to say he’s lying, no way. It’s just… it’s just impossible! Time travel is something not even our magisters can do! It needs preparation, a ritual, a circle. And that hermit just sends him through time on a whim?”

“I have to agree,” Jelisia added quietly. She’d sat down on the chair Sylphea had vacated, her eyes on her patient. Zargothrax had fallen asleep with his head in Sylphea’s lap the second he’d finished his story, and that’s where he remained, under a warming blanket, with Sylphea gently combing his shaggy hair. 

“Oh really?”, Sylphea hissed. “And how exactly do you explain all THIS?” She gestured at the sleeping Zargothrax, his injuries now hidden by bandages and the blanket.    
Jelisia didn’t answer. She’d exerted a considerable amount of her power to close the gouges on his back and prevent an infection before bandaging the torn skin so it could heal properly. The not exactly clean robe he’d borne hadn’t helped the wound, and it seemed like he’d been slammed around quite a bit in the time between the whipping and his arrival. 

She’d eased the deep bruises on his arms, restoring the crushed cells and gently willing his body to start cleaning up the spillage. After that, Lady Moira had stopped her.    
Jelisia hadn’t wanted to - his eye was still in terrible shape, the damage one of the most complex cases she’d ever seen, and his arm would remain terribly scarred should it not be dealt with soon. But Lady Moira ordered her to step back. His body needed time to tend to the fresh injuries first. He needed rest.   
_ As do you _ , the twinkle in her eyes had said. So Jelisia had stepped down, though everything in her had struggled against the order.

Zargothrax muttered something and shivered. The fear in his voice was beyond words. Sylphea stroked his cheek, hoping to calm him. His scarred left hand found hers and squeezed it.    
“Are you real?”, he asked, eyes dazed by sleep. “Or am I dreaming?”

“I’m very real, sweetie,” Sylphea promised. “Go back to sleep, you need it.”

“‘Kay.” He curled up against her once more, pressing his scarred cheek into her hand. After a few moments, his breathing slowed and he slept. 

Sylphea fixed her friends with a sober gaze. “Look me in the eyes and tell me he made this up.”

“I’m not saying he made it up,” Jelisia said. “On the contrary, I believe that he’s been through hell and back. I’m merely saying it’s not as he claims.”

“How is that-”

Jelisia shushed her, frowning at the sleeping man in Sylphea’s lap. “Pain can do a lot to one’s mind,” she said quietly. “We don’t know what the potion he worked on did. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got catapulted through time and space by an experiment.”

Sylphea stared at her. The incredulity in her face turned into a sober, but no less furious calmness. “You’re lying, Liz. I don’t know why, but you’re lying to yourself.” Sylphea shook her head and leaned back, her thumb stroking the stubble on Zargothrax’ cheek. 

“His story is… adventurous, sure. But your theory makes even less sense.”

“Really?”, Gideon asked. He didn’t look up. “Surviving that explosion already takes a few more guardian spirits than anyone should have. Getting out of here, avoiding both the Knights of Crail AND the Questlords…”

“And facing the barbarian warrior of Unst,” Jelisia added. She fixed Sylphea with a calm, collected gaze. “You’re from Unst. You know his power. Do you think Z could take him in a fight?”

Sylphea glared at her. She hated to agree with them, but… “He can’t even take Aleco in a fair fight,” she admitted. “But he didn’t say he duelled him. It sounded more like “fight for your life and run”. And the goblins-”

“Goblins, yes!”, Gideon interrupted. “They  _ hate _ humans, everyone knows that. Even if he saved one, they’d not exactly come back for him.” He grimaced, rubbing a scar on his arm. Sylphea had never asked, but it looked like a bite mark.

“He knew what was going to happen! How the hell-”

“There is no reason to fight.”    
They all winced.   
Lady Moira had quietly sat on the far end of the sofa the entire time, not interrupting or commenting on their discussion. Now she put down a tray with steaming mugs down for them. The tea filled the room with the scent of lemongrass. The head magistra knelt down next to the sleeping sorcerer, running her hand over the length of his body, just an inch shy of touching him.

“It’s healing well,” she stated. A twirl of lavender magic disappeared into his curls. “That should keep him at rest for the day. Good job, Miss MacIntyre.”

“Thanks,” Jelisia said quietly. She picked up a cup and gently blew on the tea to cool it before taking a sip. 

“What do you think, Lady Moira? Is it really… did he really come here from the future?”

“Oh yes, I certainly believe so.” Lady Moira sat down on the sofa, after distributing all cups and picking the last one for herself. The black cat sniffed her for a moment, then hopped over her lap and curled up against Zargothrax, joining his nap.

“In fact,” Lady Moira said. “I know he speaks the truth. The magic enveloping him is unmistakeable.” She paused until all of her students had made the connection, signalled by reactions ranging from confusion and wonder to incredulity. 

“So Ralathor is real?”, Jelisia asked.

“As real as you and me.” Lady Moira smiled. “He’s been around for a very long time.” Her smile turned nostalgic. “He was at Auchtermuchty for a while. They tried to make him head master, but he outright said No. He’s… not exactly a people person. But he is immensely powerful, and he has time on his hands, literally. I never questioned the full extent of his skills, but if young Zargothrax says Ralathor sent him here, then that is what happened.”

They room was silent for a very long time. Jelisia and Gideon looked at each other, then at Sylphea, who stared at them with a triumphant smile that barely hid how shaken she was. 

“Time travel is dangerous,” Gideon said in a tiny voice. “Any change to the timeline can have terrible effects.”

“Indeed,” Lady Mora said. Her eyes were directed at something far away, her hand clasping a locket around her neck. “Which means we need to make sure the changes are minimal… for now.”

She got up, sweeping her cloak around her shoulders, not only scaring the cat, who blinked at her and flicked its ears in discontent.

“Jelisia, I believe it’s time you put your training to use. Anna, dear, I will need your assistance. Sylphea, Gideon, you stay here. Try to get some rest, we have a long journey ahead of us.”

“...Who’s Anna?”

Lady Moira arched an eyebrow at Jelisia. “My friend here, of course.” The cat jumped on her shoulder, easily draping herself across the sorceress’ neck without losing her balance and blinked at the students, as if she was amused by the question.

“Oh.”

Lady Moira smiled. “Let’s go.”

Jelisia and Lady Moira left the room behind and climbed the stairs to the outside world. Once outside, Lady Moira covered the mausoleum in a spell of inconspicuousness, so no passing guards would bother looking inside.    
It had gotten dark now, and the path before them was a shining street of white, illuminated by the moonlight of a clear autumn night. 

“What we are about to do is incredibly dangerous,” Lady Moira said sternly, fixing her bright green eyes on her student. “We need to make sure the timeline stays intact. And that means that Zargothrax… past Zargothrax, that is, needs to think we are dead.”

“That’s cruel,” Jelisia whispered.

Lady Moira nodded. “It is. And I wish there was another way, but there is not. If the knights of Crail presume us dead, they will not follow us. We can help him on his journey, though unseen.”

“He’s going to be tortured-”

“And will escape,” Moira finished gently. She touched the silver locket around her neck again. “I know Ralathor. He would not take this chance if he had any other hope.” 

Jelisia shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “You and Ralathor... “

“He was very dear to me,” Moira said.””As long as he stayed here.” Her tone of voice implied she would not answer further questions. “We need to make sure the knights of Crail count us among the fallen.”

Jelisia looked down at her torn and soiled robe. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Lady Moira’s invisibility spell proved to be invaluable. They kept in the shadows, but even as guards passed them, eagles rushed by overhead, unseen in the darkness, villagers stumbled through the streets, none of them spotted the two figures making their way into the city once more.    
Jelisia had seen terrible wounds before, but the slaughter of Auchtermuchty surpassed all. The gate was toppled, huge chunks of the walls simply blown out along with the nearest buildings. They walked streets covered in grime and blood, the houses dark, people cowering in fear of the soldiers that patrolled the streets, carrying bodies to the courtyard.   
The courtyard.

The women stopped at the edge of the open space, for a moment unable to move with the horror of the situation.   
Most of the bodies had already been lined up - those that were still recognizable as bodies.    
Jelisia flinched when Lady Moira grabbed her arm.   
“Go to the laundry,” the head magistra ordered in a whisper. “Get us some clothes. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Jelisia obeyed. It was better than staying.   
The laundry rooms were shaken, but still intact. She gathered a few robes for her friends, only after the third pick realizing she was still focused on getting the right colors. With the school gone, the arbitrary system of color-coding the different classes had lost its purpose.

But still, it felt right to do so, to have this feeble remnant of order remain.

She didn’t find a blue robe in Zargothrax’ size, but it didn’t distress her as much as expected. Red had suited him better anyway.

She stored everything in a bag that she threw over her shoulder, and made sure to expand Lady Moira’s spell to incorporate it before stepping back outside.   
“You! You monsters! How could you!”

The wail cut through the night air like an arrow.    
Jelisia recognized the voice as that of the baker, an elderly, but strong woman who was often the first to lend a hand to drunk students that did not make it home after a bit too much beer. 

Jelisia knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t help but creep closer. The voice led her to the main street of the non-magical part of Auchtermuchty.   
The baker knelt in the middle of the street, clutching a lifeless body.   
The baker’s son had always been the first face in the dining hall, bringing breakfast before the students would start their classes. 

Now, neither of them would make use of his bread any longer.

“What is this wretched ruckus?”

Jelisia had to choke down a scream, pressing herself closer to the wall.    
Ser Proletius - the leader of the knights of Crail, as Z had told them - nearly vanished against the silhouette towering behind him, though the intelligence in his gaze told of a frightful enemy.   
The Hootsman surveyed the scene, no muscle in his face telling of his thoughts as he stayed behind Proletius, merely a shadow in the torchlight. His battle axe - a weapon so massive most men would not even be able to lift it - was strapped to his back, the blade glistening with blood. 

Jelisia retreated into the shadows, her heart beating in her throat. Her foot scratched a stone, that flew off into the darkness with a click swallowed by the wind. 

The Hootsman looked up. 

Jelisia held her breath. She felt Lady Moira’s spell all around. He should not be able to see her. 

But his eyes did not leave her face. 

“Morgan, are you done counting?”, Proletius barked. 

“Not yet, Ser,” a soldier off in the shadows reported. “It’s… difficult.”

Jelisia could not look away. Could he see her?    
Good Gods, could she craft a spell faster than he could strike?

The grand master of the knights of Crail surveyed the scene, and sighed. “Great. Just great. Now we have to take care to not count civilians as well.”

Finally, the Hootsman turned, his burning blue gaze releasing her as he returned his attention to the baker and Proletius. The old woman had fallen silent, her stream of curses stifled by the barbarian’s sheer presence.

Jelisia shuffled backwards, but did not dare to run yet.

“What’s your name?”

“Margaret O’Dunnahan,” the old woman replied, her voice hoarse.

“I apologize for this… accident. You will be reimbursed sufficiently.”

“There’s no reimbursing a life, you-”

Proletius was hurt, but trying not to show it. Jelisia could see it in the way he tried to shift his weight. Men were stubborn like that, unfortunately.    
It was a small injury, just a slice of the original spell most likely, but it would eat his leg inside out if not treated by a sorcerer.

Well, tough luck.

“Tell me when you’re done,” Proletius said to the soldiers, not listening to the cursing woman any longer. “And make sure to check thoroughly.” Proletius turned and walked away, his shoulders stiff in pain. The Hootsman followed. 

“Oh for the eagle’s sake, I told them to keep the civilians out of it,” he grumbled to himself. “The prince is going to-”

The Hootsman smirked and slapped Proletius’ shoulder so hard the knight staggered. “Things happen in a frenzy. It’ll be fine.”

They vanished in the darkness, their silhouettes merging as the Hootsman steadied his injured friend the last thing Jelisia saw.

The baker swore up a storm at the soldiers, and now, with the Hootsman gone, some other residents dared to come out of their hiding spots too. Jelisia dashed into the nearest alley and back to where she’d last seen Lady Moira, her heart racing, the wind suddenly turned icy on her sweaty skin. Had he seen her? Was this a trick?   
She found Lady Moira bent over a body. To her horror, Jelisia realized it was another one of the “civilians” - the non-magical people at least. Barely more than a lad, too.

Lavender magic flickered through the aether as Lady Moira changed the poor sod’s likeness until he could nearly pass as Gideon. Jelisia looked away. Even knowing her brother was alive and well, it was just too much.

The other sights were no better, though. She recognized faces. People she’d shared classes with, that had worked with her, played games, gone to the fair - luckily nobody she’d been close friends with, except- 

Her gaze fell upon a dark, curly mane she recognized well enough. 

Her feet carried her forward before she’d realized what she was doing. She knelt down next to him, tentatively touching his chest.

His face was covered in blood, nearly swallowing his features. The spell that had hit him was still searing through his body, eating through his skin like fire. Jelisia hissed as the acidic power tore at her, but after a few moments, she managed to first stifle, and then dispel the harmful effects. His arm was badly burned, but she knew she would not be able to heal it. She did however dampen the pain a little, so when he’d wake, he’d be ready.

For whatever was coming.

“Come now.” Lady Moira’s voice made her jump. The head magistra knelt down next to her and unclasped the necklace around Zargothrax’ neck. The lock responded with a flash of magic, but Lady Moira caught the attack, dispelling the shock it would have dealt her.

“What are you doing?”, Jelisia hissed. “He’ll need it!”    
Lady Moira only shook her head. “We need it more. Come.” She got up and quickly vanished in the shadows.

Jelisia hesitated. “I’m so sorry.” She brushed her hand over his dirty, scratched cheek, hoping the little strength she could give him would at least alleviate his pain before she got up and followed her teacher.    
As they made their way through the broken walls and into the safety of the catacombs, Zargothrax began to stir.

_ Dundee, aviaries above the royal castle _

_ About six weeks in the future _

“What do you MEAN you have to go back to Unst?” Proletius could not keep the disbelief, and frankly hurt, from his voice. They both knew that if Hoots wanted to go anywhere, neither Proletius nor the entire royal guard could stop him, but Proletius’ hand around his arm had at least made him stop for a moment.    
“There’s… issues I need to take care of,” the Hootsman said, looking sufficiently ashamed of himself, though they both knew he was not.

When Aquilus had cried out, Proletius had expected about anything. It would not have been the first time someone tried to steal the eagle, out of malice or just foolishness.    
Perhaps the prince had decided to show just how displeased he was with the Grand Master of Crail in a more direct form? He’d hurried to the aviaries as fast as his bad leg carried him, climbing the dozens of stairs in record time while trying to combat the terror festering in his heart in worry for his companion.

What he had  _ not _ expected was the Hootsman trying to talk or, if need be,  _ force _ Aquilus into carrying him back to Unst, right now. 

“What issues?” Proletius hated the fear that had crept into his voice. It revealed the true question he didn’t want to ask:  _ Why would you leave me alone right now? _

The sad truth was that the Hootsman was a major factor in Proletius’ fortune of still being alive. Prince Angus‘’ satisfaction of finally having the sorcerer Ralathor in his grasp had dwindled rapidly with the hermit spitting in his face repeatedly, both literally and metaphorically. Even weakened and shackled by the enchanted ropes Sire Equestrion had graciously left the court, Ralathor did not falter.    
After being submitted to some of the worst non-lethal torture mankind had invented, that damned sorcerer did not even seemed _ fazed _ . 

It made the prince furious.   
Worse, prince Angus had decided this entire mess was Ser Proletius’ personal fault, starting with letting Zargothrax - he finally had the name down - getting away in the first place..   
How he’d found that out, Proletius did not know.   
The Hootsman drew back his arm, and Proletius let him go. There was no point in playing pretend. He leaned on the crutch that had become his permanent companion now, taking pressure off his leg while trying not to grimace.

“The Muness clan,” the Hootsman explained, sweeping his eyes over the mostly empty aviary, graciously not directing his frightful anger at Proletius. “They’re the only clan of sorcerers up there, but they are quite powerful. Unfortunately.” He growled, clearly imagining what he’d do to the mages if he just got the chance. “They’ve always been a bother. Friends with goblins, always sticking their nose into everything, it’s awful.”

Proletius nodded. The Hootsman rarely spoke of his home, aside of the legendary parties and the fact that Unstians seemed to have an inhuman alcohol tolerance.

“One of their… ugh, sons, I suppose? One of their little ones anyway, attended Auchtermuchty.”

The puzzle pieces clicked into place. “You think they’ll try to avenge him? Start a revolt? Attack Fife, perhaps?”

“That’s what I need to find out.” The Hootsman rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he had a headache. “I can’t use this nonsense right now.”

“Ah, your little deal with the princess.” Proletius smirked at the Hootsman’s shocked face, more than a little satisfied to have evoked such a strong response.    
He waved him over to a more private corner of the aviary, gently pushing Aquilus to the side to go through. The eagle hopped after them and settled down as a massive, fluffy shield, allowing his master to settle against him. Proletius was glad he could stretch his legs a bit, without having to balance weight on them, and leaned into the soft feathers.    
The Hootsman sat down across from him, using an upside-down bucket as a seat, that creaked miserably at his weight.    
“Don’t worry, I think I’m the only one who figured it out,” Proletius said with a slight smile. “Let’s see: You serve the prince - or rather the princess - for as long as it takes Fife to take over the mainland. In return, I suppose you bargained for Unst being independent and neutral?”

The Hootsman mustered him. If Proletius had been anyone else, he’d be dead now. The Hootsman did not like outsiders sticking their nose into his business.   
A smile broke out on his bearded face. He slapped Proletius’ knee, making the knight gasp in pain. “Very good. I always knew you were a smart one.”

“I’d hope so,” Proletius muttered, rubbing his leg. “As of now, I’m more worried about that escaped wizard. If I don’t find him soon, my head is next.”   
“Oh, horsecrap,” the Hootsman said blithely. “If it was up to Angus, yeah, probably. But not the princess. She knows you’re not the problem here.”

Proletius only sighed. Aquilus gently nudged his shoulder, and the knight scratched the eagles head, thanking him for his care and enjoying the feeling of feathers under his fingers.

“If Unst rebels, we’ll have no choice but to take over the isle immediately.” He ran his fingers over Aquilus’ neck, his mind automatically going over battle plans. Unst to him, was a faraway, hypothetical land that he wouldn’t mind having part of Fife’s domain.   
But Hoots was not hypothetical.   
“I’d have to lead my men into battle against your people.”

The Hootsman nodded solemnly, his face once more unreadable. “Indeed.”

Proletius leaned back, feeling Aquilus snuggle up against his chest. “If I’m still alive by then. If the prince doesn’t do it, my damn leg probably will.”

The Hootsman regarded him steadily, not needing to speak the question. Proletius sighed and pulled up his pant leg to unwrap the bandage, heavy with the herb tincture he’d been given.   
The spell had grazed the outside of his calf, leaving a red line that burned into his skin like acid. In the heat of the battle, he had not seen where it had come from, only glad that his armour seemed to have absorbed most of the blast.    
The red line disappeared soon, and for a day or two, it looked like he was fine.    
When the first black spot appeared, it had been no larger than a mosquito bite. Now it was as big as the Hootsman’s hand.   
The Hootsman had huge hands.   
The skin was searing hot to the touch, the nefarious spell festering inside his body, taking over cell after cell. Even having a bandage touching the wound was nearly unbearable, but any loose fabric was even worse. Aside of the pain, he’d lost nearly all feeling in the leg from the knee to the ankle.   
And it was spreading.

“If this doesn’t resolve itself, I can say goodbye to that leg. And to flying.” His words left no doubt which fate was heavier to bear. Aquilus croaked and nudged his shoulder, being awarded with head scritches for his care.

Proletius sighed, putting on the bandage again, not showing just  _ how  _ painful this simple act was. “Try to be back before the coronation.”    
“Aye. If you try to stay alive.”

Proletius sighed. “I’ll do my best.” He straightened and patted the eagle’s neck. “Aquilus, my friend, it’s time.”

The eagle looked at him as if he was out of his mind and didn’t move. Proletius heaved himself to his feet, only after much consideration allowing Hoots to help him. Aquilus folded his massive wings and curled into a puffy, beaked ball, his golden eyes staring angrily at his master.  _ Hell no _ , his eyes said.  _ I’m not leaving you here. _

Proletius stroked the eagle’s beak, resting his forehead against it. “I know. But you’re not safe here, my friend. Bring Hoots to Unst, and listen to what he says… if it makes sense. We will meet again soon.”

Aquilus cawed again, unwilling. Proletius merely regarded him. Eventually, the eagle got up, though not without hesitation. He was too old to be a battlesteed, not the fastest eagle anymore. The winds over the sea would be tricky for him.   
But he’d make it. He’d return to his master. He’d always done.

Hoots swung himself up on the eagle, fastening the safety straps from the eagle’s harness to his belt. “Thank you.”

Proletius gave him a level gaze. “Next time just ask. You can be glad Aquilus didn’t rip your beard out.”

The Hootsman squinted at him, instinctively stroking said beard. “Noted.”

Aquilus croaked, hopped to the opening and fell off the ledge.    
Proletius couldn’t stifle his laughter as he heard the Hootsman scream curses into the wind as Aquilus took flight and soared into the sky, headed straight north. After so many years, he should have known you didn’t mess with a Crailian eagle.   
_ Farewell old friend. Safe travels. _

Fianny, the only other eagle currently stationed in Dundee, raised her head and hopped over to Proletius. He scratched her neck, leaning on his crutch.    
“Are you here to arrest me, your highness? Or will that wait until Hoots gets back?”

He didn’t turn as Angus stepped out of the shadows, watching the prince’s reflection in Fianny’s golden eyes. The prince had his hammer thrown lazily over his shoulder and strolled up to him as if he was taking a walk in the gardens.

“Arrest you?”, he chuckled. “Nono, that is not why I am here.” He stared into the white sky for a moment. “I was going to have a chat with your feathery friend, but I suppose that will have to wait now.”

Proletius turned, only his willpower and years of training keeping him from showing the contempt that burned in his chest. “I see. Can I help you in any other way, your majesty?”

Angus put the hammer down and leaned on it, watching the Grand Master of Crail curiously. 

“Aye, you can. I’ve heard rumors of mages gathering in Cowdenbeath. Perhaps our fugitive has found a home?” He raised an eyebrow at Fianny, who watched him with bright, distrustful eyes. “We need to find out what is going on before we crack down on them. And you seem like just the one for the task, don’t you think?”

Proletius blinked at him. He hadn’t done reconnaissance missions in at least a decade, and his fame throughout the country didn’t exactly make him the first choice for a spy. 

Angus mustered him, a grin on his face. “I can see it - the limp is perfect. Just add some rags and a bit of dirt. You’ll make a fine beggar.”

Proletius nodded stiffly. “Aye, your majesty.”

“Wonderful.” Angus turned on his heel, throwing the hammer over his shoulder again and nearly slapping Proletius in the face with his cape. “Perhaps you’ll find a healer while you’re there. Would certainly benefit you, right?”

He was out of the room before Proletius could answer, noisily descending the stairs into the castle. 

Proletius leaned his shoulder against Fianny, who hadn’t left his side.   
He was a knight of Crail. He had sworn loyalty to Dundee to his death, and that oath he would keep.   
But perhaps, it was time for a backup plan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....I'm starting to develop sympathy for Proletius and that is Not Good  
Moira is, by the way, tellmeoflegend's character. Thanks for lending her to me for this role.  
And Anna the cat? That's our lovely hootsforce over on tumblr. This one is for you.


	18. Everything went according to plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .... the plan was just crappy
> 
> Sylphea and Zargothrax have a job to do, but they're not exactly used to questing.

“This is insane.”

“Absolutely.”

“Why are we here again?”

“...because Lady Moira said so?”

Sylphea looked at him. “...Good point.” She returned her eyes to the road stretching out under them. Clothed in her now mended and reinforced armour, the color a pale, beautiful green barely showing on the shining metal, she looked more powerful than ever. Zargothrax could not believe she was here, even a week after stumbling into the dining hall, barely conscious with pain, just in time to save her life.   
Not all of them. But her.    
“Hey, Z?”

“Huh?” He left his bag at the stone he had been sitting on and laid down next to her. Up here, on the side of the mountains and shaded by the trees, they were safe from being spotted both from the sky and the road, as long as they didn’t make too much noise.

“What’s up?” He groaned as his back protested with a dull ache. Jelisia and Lady Moira had done incredible work, but the soreness only time could heal and even they had not been able to fix his eye, or the scars that had remained of the raid, not when time was this short. 

“I was just wondering,” Sylphea said. “When you’d escaped from the town, you went to the pavilion. Why?”

That was not the question he’d expected. “It was the only place I could think of. The guards can’t find it, and I hoped perhaps… others had found their way there.”

“Uh-huh.” She was quiet for a few seconds, her eyes sweeping over the street. Still nothing. Just like yesterday, and the day before yesterday.   
“What did you do?”

Zargothrax arched an eyebrow at her. “What do you want to hear? That I planned my revenge? Detailed step-by-step instructions how to take down each of them?”

“Did you?”

“No.” He rested his chin on his arms. “I got drunk. Jelisia left branberry mead for the evening, remember? Downed the entire thing and slept for two days.”

Sylphea couldn’t stifle a snort. “Sounds more like it.” She inched closer to him and draped an arm over his back. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You have no idea,” he replied with a smile. When he looked up, their faces were inches from each other. They both blinked, then frowned, and burst into giggles.    
It felt wonderful to laugh again.

The first time Zargothrax had woken enough to remember clearly had been three days after the raid. Down in the catacombs, they were safe, and could heal, in all the ways they needed.    
Lady Moira was their beacon, their light in the darkness.    
When the first shock had ebbed off, the other students had reacted much like Zargothrax had back then: First paralysis and panic, then desperation, then anger, and lastly emptiness. A lot of tears were shed. But eventually, they’d recovered enough to act and Lady Moira set a plan in motion.

In that week, Zargothrax had recovered physically, and the joy of having his closest friends around had nearly managed to drown out the guilt of all the lives he had not saved. Splitting up was literally the last thing he had wanted to do, but Lady Moira insisted it was necessary, so after a lot of goodbye hugs, they’d gone their separate ways, hoping to meet again soon.    
Jelisia and Gideon would travel and gather support for their counter strike, should it ever come to open battle. Auchtermuchty was perhaps the center of magical activity, but that didn’t mean there were no other sorcerers in Fife, or on the entire isle.    
Angus would soon learn just how far magic was spread over the land.

Lady Moira was off to a task of her own - reconnaissance, as she called it. She’d not gone into detail and no questions could bring her to do so.    
But before she’d gone, she’d spared her students many days of travel by constructing a portal that brought them right where they needed to be. 

In Achnasheen.

Or, to be more precise, somewhere NEAR Achnasheen, for the entrance to the mystical valley was hidden by magic no teleportation spell could break. 

“What exactly does she expect us to do? Kidnap a Questlord?”, Sylphea muttered.

“No idea,” Zargothrax admitted.    
Thinking of the Questlords already made him nervous. His last encounter with Sire Equestrion had not been that long ago in the future, and he had no doubt about what they’d do to him if they found him.

“>You need a steed. The unicorn will help you<,” Sylphea imitated the head magistra. She rolled her eyes. “If it wasn’t Lady Moira we’re talking about, I’d say she’s bonkers. This is Achnasheen! Nobody breaks into Achnasheen! Least of all a known fugitive, arch foe of the Questlords and…”

She broke off, a smile spreading on her face as realization dawned on her.

“What?” When she didn’t answer, Zargothrax slowly inched away from her. “Sylph, I know what you’re thinking and I don’t like it.”

Sylphea smirked, resting her chin on her hand. “Why? Any better plans?”

“We don’t even know if Sorcha is in there.”

“Where else would she be? If we don’t free her, your past self doesn’t have a ride. It all fits together.”

Zargothrax got up and retreated deeper into the forest. “I see your point, but that is NOT how we’re gonna do it.”

Sylphea got up and followed, after making sure no riders were anywhere in sight. “Why not?”, she chirped. “Only the Questlords can cross the veil surrounding Achnasheen. We can’t overwhelm them, and the unicorns would most likely not carry us anyway.”    
For every step towards him, Zargothrax took one back, until his flight was cut off by a tree root, and he landed heavily on his behind. Sylphea bowed down to him, using his knee for support, her eyes sparkling.   
“What’s your objection?”

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Nonsense, it’s gonna be fine.”    
Not even Sylphea sounded convinced of herself anymore. Or perhaps, it was the glamour transforming her, turning the short sorceress into a big, imposing warrior with a voice to match. Her hand around his bound arms tightened as the first sound of hoofs reached them. They were fast. At this rate, they’d reach them in less than a minute - if they didn’t simply ride them down, standing in the middle of the street.

“Sylphea, this is a bad idea.”

“Shush, don’t blow it.”

He thought of Ser Proletius, and of Sire Equestrion. The ropes. And the dungeon.   
“I’m scared.”

Thunder filled the valley as the unicorns tore through the opening. 

“Hoi! Stop!” 

The company came to a sliding halt, raising a cloud of dust. Only sheer luck and Sylphea’s quick reflexes saved them as the unicorns reeled, their deadly hoofs cutting the air inches from their heads.

There were five of them. Five Questlords in full armour, on unicorns that towered over even the tallest man. 

Zargothrax felt his legs start shaking. 

Well, perhaps that made it more convincing.

“Greetings,” Sylphea called, her deep voice booming over the landscape. “I have a little gift for you.”

“Sire Hesturis will be here in a minute,” the Questlord informed them. “In the meanwhile…”

He grabbed Zargothrax by the sleeve to drag him off, but Sylphea didn’t plan to have that happen. She stepped in between them, slapping away the rider’s hand as casually as one would swat a fly. 

“I’d prefer to hand him over personally. If that is not too much trouble.”

The Questlord - a large man with shoulder-long brown hair and a wicked scar on his jaw - mustered them. Sylphea’s hand closed tighter around the ropes she’d wrapped around her friend’s wrists - just tight enough to be convincing without hurting him.    
Zargothrax was trembling so badly she had to hold him upright, his face the color of snow.   
His panic threatened to swallow her too, but she suppressed the anxiety trying to rise in her chest. If Z was unreliable at best right now, useless at worst, everything depended on her. 

“Fine by me. Wait here.”

The Questlord turned and walked in the direction of a low hut, the only man-made architecture in the vicinity. 

Sylphea frowned and inspected the surroundings a bit closer, but didn’t move. This had been a little too easy, hadn’t it?    
Once the Questlords had made sure there were no hidden warriors hiding nearby, they’d escorted Sylphea and her “prisoner” into Achnasheen without much hesitation.    
They hadn’t even made Sylphea hand over her admittedly meager weapons.    
The valley was guarded by what Sylphea assumed was a veil - though a veil much more complex than she’d ever seen, deeply rooted in the land itself.

Once past that barrier, the valley stretched out in front of them, green meadows and a warm breeze that had no right to exist this late in the year. Unicorns trotted around in the distance. Some came closer, curious about the visitors, but soon lost interest, at the latest when the unicorns that had arrived with the Questlords were freed of their armour and joined the rest of their flock. 

“Can you see her?”, Sylphea whispered, her lips barely moving.

“N-no.” 

She’d never seen him so scared. His eyes darted back and forth behind the protective glasses Lady Moira had provided him with, every fiber tense to the point of bursting. 

“This was too easy,” he whispered, the words nearly unintelligible with his shaking. “What if they see through the glamour.”

Sylphea gently stroked his hand with her thumb, pretending she was just readjusting her grip around his shackles. “They’re not mages.”

“They knew I’d used magic on myself when I came to Auchtermuchty though.”

“They what.”

Oh. Oh  _ SHIT _ .

“Welcome, young friends.” 

They both spun. The man before them was slimmer than the other Questlords, with grey hair elaborately braided back and a long, square face. His armour, though not spotless, spoke of a man of power, a silver cape trailing behind him.

“My name is Sire Hesturis, the keeper of this wonderful place.” His voice was surprisingly soft and cultivated, but there was something… slimy about it. Sylphea didn’t trust him. “I see our presumed unicorn thief has made it here after all, though a little later than Sire Equestrion claimed.” He chuckled. “A pleasant surprise, I must say. He was quite worked up about the incident for… a while. Though I’m not sure what hurt his pride more: Being shown up by a young wizard, or the refusal of his own steed to return to him.”

“Sorcha was Equestrion’s unicorn?”, Zargothrax burst out.    
That explained a lot. Including his burning hatred for the sorcerer.

Hesturis mustered him with a slight smile. “Indeed. Are you here to retrieve her?”

He was about to answer, but Sylphea dragged him backwards. “He’s not here for anything, I’d hope. Otherwise that would be an interesting coincidence.”

“Really?”, Hesturius asked slowly, looking her over. “How did you come upon him, by the way?”

Sylphea looked him in the eyes, trying not to be unsettled by the abnormal silver-green colour. If she didn’t know better, she’d guess he was blind, but the way he mustered her was not that of a blind man. On the contrary.   
“Stumbled upon him face-down in a branberry bush,” she explained with a snort. “I’d guess whatever spell he used to get here went a little differently than expected.” She forced a small, scornful laugh. “I heard there’s a fugitive sorcerer, so it wasn’t hard guessing who he was.” 

Hesturius nodded slowly, but did not show if he believed her. Sylphea felt Zargothrax next to her freeze and wished she’d taken that class of telepathy he’d tried to talk her into.    
What had he seen?   
“The Knights of Crail are looking for him, aren’t they?”, Hesturis asked. His cold eyes wandered over the landscape, as if he had no care in the world. “Why come here?”

“The knights of Crail, aye…” She sighed. “Not the most pleasant lads, if you ask me. I thought I’d try my luck with your lot first. A deal, so to speak.”

The eyes reminded her of something, though she could not recall what. They saw everything, reflecting the lights and movement of the surroundings. “What deal?”

Reflecting everything.

Sylphea caught the strike just in time, but the vibration tore through every fiber nonetheless. The blade sparked as it scraped over her armour, leaving no doubt a few bruises on her arm. She tore the ropes open with one motion and shoved Zargothrax into the open plains.

“Run!”

She caught the next blow and ran for her life.

The flight didn’t last long.    
Something hit her temple and the world vanished in white. She didn’t even feel herself hitting the ground. When the stars in front of her eyes dimmed, the glowing tip of a blade was pointed at her throat.    
The Questlords - the one that had brought them in earlier, and another, shorter one still wearing his helmet - dragged them to their feet. Ropes bit into their arms and Sylphea felt herself grow cold as the enchantment tore at her magic.

Hesturis mustered them with a smile, his armour shimmering like the surface of a lake. 

“He’s a kelpie,” Zargothrax croaked. 

The hopelessness in his voice made her angry. Was that it? Would they just surrender now?

“It was a decent attempt,” Hesturis commended them. “Really, a display of valour unlike anything I’ve seen. But foolish, I’m afraid. Equestrion will most likely want to trade you in against a few favors from the crown, but until then, we still have some time.”

Sylphea shivered under the silver gaze. What was he planning? Torturing them for information? Or…

She didn’t want to think about it further.

The Questlords dragged them deeper into the valley, towards the building. Upon closer inspection, the hut was a stone building more resembling a summer residence than an outpost. Next to it was a stable, whose walls were glowing with magic strong enough to shine on the physical realm. Whatever was in there was big, and dangerous.

They were escorted into the building, where they were tied to two chairs in the middle of the main room. That was not good news. 

Sylphea got a hold of Zargothrax’ hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back.    
Their magic was entirely cut off by the enchanted ropes, so they’d have to rely on other methods if they wanted to get out of here.    
If they got out of here.

“Ah, young love,” Hesturis commented. “Even in the darkest times, there’s nothing like the touch of your most precious being on earth. Two ladies in love… a wonderful little story.”

Sylphea blinked at him, trying to make sense of the bunch of double-faced horseshit she’d just heard.

“I’m not a lady,” Zargothrax hissed. “You might want to check your eyes, Sire.”

Hesturis arched an eyebrow. “Oh dear, my eyes work just fine. But we both know the outside can be deceiving, don’t you think?” He waved the topic off. “Anyhow, I suppose Sire Equestrion wants to take you on. He is still quite upset about the entire incident with his steed preferring a young girl over himself.”

Zargothrax let out a growl unbefitting a human being. “Equestrion can get fucked.”

Hesturis laughed. He paced around them a few times, his steps leaving the hint of wet prints that soon vanished once more. “What rude words from a lady. I can see why Sorcha is drawn to you.” He stopped in front of them and bent down, his face inches from theirs. Sylphea wanted to break his nose, but thinking was already hard with how much her head was swimming, a headbutt would probably make things exponentially worse.

“I would absolutely hate to hurt you.” He stroked Sylphea’s cheek. “The crown will most likely be more than interested in the fact that there’s not one but  _ two _ sorcerers on the loose. But I wonder if they really need to kno- aaahhh!”

Hesturis jumped back, holding his bleeding hand. Sylphea spat on the floor, trying to get the taste of sea weed out of her mouth. “Don’t fucking touch me, you creep!”

Hesturis glared at her. Then he straightened, folding his hands behind his back in a ridiculous copy of a royal. “I was going to offer you a pleasant stay. Perhaps a chance to become my apprentice. It would not be the first time for a sorceress to join our ranks.”

“Oh, really?”, Sylphea chirped, her eyes widening in excitement. “You should have said! In that case…” She bared her teeth in a feral grin. “Go fuck yourself on a unicorn horn.”

Hesturis took a step forward, as if he wanted to hit her, but the noise of hoofs entering the valley interrupted him. 

“We’ll see how you fare tomorrow.” He turned on his heels, which made a wet scraping sound. “Lock them up for now.”

Hesturis left the room, once more leaving those barely wet footprints behind, his armour shimmering in the early evening lights. 

“Where the hell are we supposed to put them?”, the brown-haired questlord asked his partner. “This isn’t a prison.”

Sylphea squeezed Z’s hand. “We’ll find a solution.”   
Zargothrax didn’t answer. He looked absolutely miserable, barely able to lift his gaze off his feet, pale enough to pass for dead. His hand in Sylphea’s was sweaty and cold.    
It reminded her once more than despite all he’d overcome, he was no warrior and had never wanted to be.

“Sire Equestrion! You’re here earlier than expected. Welcome home.” Hesturis’ voice carried even more false cheer than before. The unicorn’s armour rattled as its rider dismounted.    
“Well at least in here I won’t freeze my ass off,” Equestrion growled. “Any news?”

“Not yet. The knights of Crail are still looking for the escaped sorcerer. How are things in Edinburgh?”

“They’re as stubborn as always. If Fife decides to attack, our responsibilities lie with the archive, but no further.”

“Very well. Has the archivist agreed to our offer?”    
Their conversation disappeared in the distance as they walked deeper into the valley. 

The Questlords looked at each other. “The stable?”

“The stable.” 

They untied the prisoners and led them out of the building, over to the barn door. The wood was covered in runes, many of which Sylphea had never seen, let alone could guess which language they originated from. Layers and layers upon spells covered the building, all with one singular goal: To keep whatever was in there contained.

“Try not to make any noise, she goes by sound. If you’ve gotten impaled, good look.”

They shoved them through the gate, the two sorcerers landing on their knees in a rather smelly stack of straw. The door fell shut with a bang, and it was dark.

“Well, at least they didn’t take our weapons?”

She didn’t receive an answer. With her magic bound, she could not even summon a flame, but she felt his presence nearby and found him easily. Zargothrax had curled up against the far wall, shaking too much to speak. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” Sylphea assured him. She sat down next to him, tracing his arm to grab his hand. “We’ll get out of here.”

No answer once again. Just a shaky breath. 

“Z?”

Nothing. 

“Z, hey.” Sylphea got to her knees, trying to make out something in the darkness. There was a small hole at the edge of the roof, letting in a tiny amount of light, but all she saw was his still form, hidden in his cloak. She shook him gently, trying to get him to respond. “Talk to me. It’s alright, we’ll find a way.”

Nothing. 

“Z. Zargothrax Alasdair McKenzie, talk to me, will you? What’s wrong?”

“I’m alright.”

“You don’t sound alright.”

“That’s your problem,” he snapped. “Don’t bug me.” 

A pause. “Sorry.” He tried to get up, at first not finding his balance, and eventually settled on his knees, facing her. Sylphea steadied him as best she could with her wrists bound.    
“Fuck. I’m… I’m just trying not to panic here, okay?” He exhaled shakily. “It’s so dark…”

“I know.” She squeezed his hands. “But we’ll get out of here. I won’t let them hurt you.”

He laughed, though the sound was barely above a whisper. “That’s not what I’m scared of.”

“Sweetie, before they hurt me, they’ll lose a few fingers.”

“Yeah I know.” Pause. “Good job on that Hesturis guy.”

She leaned against him, trying to calm him a bit, like she’d seen her father do with his brother. Uncle Archie had been a mercenary for most of his life but after his last mission had ended in months of imprisonment, he’d come home for good. He was never the same again, but when his brother was nearby, the terror in his eyes always seemed to dissipate, just a bit.

“I won’t go back into captivity,” Zargothrax said. “I won’t let them torture me again.”

“You won’t,” Sylphea confirmed. 

She felt a hand at her waist, then heard the scraping of steel as Zargothrax drew the dagger from her belt.

“Oh, good thinking!”    
The ropes, while being enchanted, were not protected against a very much non-magical sharp edge. It wasn’t easy in the darkness, but her eyes had begun to adjust to the tiny strips of light coming through the ceiling, and they managed to cut their restraints without hurting themselves.   
Sylphea felt herself relax as her magic began to flow again, spreading through her body and soothing the aches she’d suffered. She wrapped her arms around her friend and just held on. The Gods knew they both needed a hug right now. 

His panicked heartbeat under her hands began to calm as he took a few controlled breaths, leaning against her.

“We can do this,” she said.

He nodded. “We can do this.”

Something shuffled behind her. Hot breath flowed over her neck, the sound of steel scraping over the stone floor accompanying the invisible beast. 

Sylphea froze.

She found Z’s eyes in the darkness, even his very silhouette conveying the instinctual fear Sylphea shared. Then, suddenly, a smile broke on his face.

“Sorcha!”

He leapt to his feet, rushing towards the beast. Sylphea ducked, just barely avoiding a blow by the deadly horn that would have gutted her, or at least broken a rib or two. Zargothrax staggered back, his joy turning into shock.

“Sorcha, it’s me, don’t you remember? You brought me to- wait no, that was in the future, damn it.” He summoned a low, turquoise flame that illuminated the inside of a stable that had seen better days. The straw was in desperate need of changing and the water and food provided would not suffice a pig, let alone a unicorn. 

Sorcha stared at them, her dark eyes flashing in uncontained rage. Someone had wrapped her horn in rags, securing the sharp point with a piece of wood. Her harness had been repurposed as a straightjacket, being connected to the floor by heavy chains, her four legs shackled in the same manner, giving her just enough room to move around to feed and relieve herself in different spots. Her white fur was matted, lacking its usual glow, her mane shaggy and crusted with dirt. 

“Good Gods, you poor creature,” Sylphea whispered. “How can the Questlords of all people do that to you?”

“Pretty sure that’s Equestrion’s doing,” Zargothrax muttered. “Lad’s got a bit of a sensitive ego.”

“I got that impression, yes,” Sylphea sighed. “Um, Z, what are you-” She got a hold of his robe and was just in time to prevent him from a headbutt by the unicorn in front of them. The two sorcerers crashed to the floor, landing softly in a patch of hay. 

Zargothrax was back on his feet before Sylphea could stop him. “Sorcha, it’s me. You saved my life in the marshes, remember?”    
The unicorn snorted, but her ears slowly turned forward, signalling attention. Zargothrax shoved up his glasses before he took a step forward, arms spread out to show he was no threat. “Look at me. Do you remember?”

The unicorn huffed, but her erratic stomping ebbed off.

Sylphea got to her feet. The second she did, Sorcha neighed and took a threatening step forward. Zargothrax stepped in the way, dangerously close to the perhaps restrained, but still dangerous creature. A being of this size could just trample them to death without ever leaving the range of her chains.

“She’s a friend,” he assured. “I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, but trust me, I mean no harm. I’m a prisoner just like you. If we stick together, perhaps we can get out of here.”

“Z, it’s… it’s a unicorn,” Sylphea reminded him. “They’re great animals, but they’re not human. She doesn’t understand you.”

“Oh no, she does,” he answered cheerfully. “Don’t you worry.”

Sorcha huffed again, but when she stepped forward this time, it didn’t carry the same force or anger. Zargothrax stroked her nose, now crusted and sore, and in the end even leaned his forehead against hers. “See, I told you.”

Sorcha shook her head, pawing the ground. Zargothrax laughed. “Alright, alright, hold up, I’m not that fast. Sylph, can you see where the chains are closed?” He began unwrapping the horn, with every layer revealing more of the mystical glow that had been stifled by whatever spells had been worked into the cloth.

Sylphea stared at him. “You… don’t want to just release her in here, do you? She’s going to flip and trample us to death.”

“Nonsense. She’s our ticket out of here.”

“Z, I’ve grown up with horses, I know what they’re like-”

He stopped what he was doing to turn and shoot her an annoyed glance. “Horses, yes. She’s not a horse though.”

Sylphea gave up. If he didn’t want to listen, she would have to make sure he didn’t die another way. She summoned her own flame and circled the unicorn, making sure to stay out of range of her hoofs. 

“The shackles look pretty normal to me. Do you know how to pick a lock?”

He blinked at her over the shine of his flame, his eyes wide. “Me? Sylphea, how dare you imply I could possess such a skill of tricksters and thieves!” 

“...can you?”

“Of course I can.”   
To Sylphea’s surprise, opening the shackles was as easy as it had looked. No enchantments, no tricks, no traps. They were just regular iron, and with a pick made from transfiguring one of the nails strewn about in the stable, they opened easily. The unicorn held perfectly still while they worked. Once the harness was open, she shook it off, nearly crushing Sylphea, but didn’t jump around or start bucking, which was already surprising enough. 

“See, I told you,” Zargothrax announced proudly.

Sorcha lowered her head, the gleaming horn now nearly free.

“Z, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”

He ignored her. The piece of wood had nearly split in the middle, the horn being driven deeper and deeper into it by Sorcha’s attempts to get it off. Zargothrax pulled, but no amount of physical strength could even move it. 

“Sylph, a hand, perhaps?”

Sylphea hesitated. Even if the unicorn SEEMED friendly right now, a five year old questionable connection could hardly overrule the instincts of a beast that had been held captive for the Gods knew how long. The horn was the unicorn’s greatest weapon, and not only because it was sharper than any blade. It held the unicorn’s magic - whatever that was. There was a reason the Questlords did not share their secrets with others. 

“Sylph. Come on.”

Sylphea looked the unicorn over. “Don’t you try to stab me.”

Sorcha huffed. If she was human, she may have rolled her eyes. Sylphea took a hold of the wood, feeling the ancient cells strain under her grip. One quick spell, and the horn was free, the force of the release nearly sending her backwards into the wall. Sorcha shook her head and danced happily on the spot as her horn began to glow.

The transformation was as instant as it was impressive. Her coat, before matted and crusted with dirt, suddenly shone in pearly white, the crusts and sores disappearing. Her shaggy mane turned back into a silky curtain, the cracked hooves restoring themselves to all their deadly glory. Sorcha shook herself, making dust fly everywhere, and regarded them with eyes much more intelligent than any animal had the right to be.

As far as Sylphea was concerned, that made the unicorns more scary than ever.

_ Thank you. _

“You’re welcome,” Zargothrax said with a shrug. “That being done, we do need your help. Or… well my past self, as I said.” He summarized the situation in a few sentences. “In other words, you need to find him, he should be somewhere between Lochmill Loch and the Tay by now.”

“And before that, perhaps get us out of here,” Sylphea added. The unicorn cocked its head. “Please?”

“Oh, yes, that too.” Zargothrax went over to the stable door and examined the runes carved into them. “I’m not sure if even Sorcha can break these down. And even if, how are we going to run from an entire legion of unicorns…”

His optimistic stance dropped. “Shit.”

“Hesturis said something about us holding up tomorrow,” Sylphea said. “They’ll have to open the doors sooner or later if they want to get us out.”

“Probably…” 

In lack of better alternatives, they cleared what they could in the room with the help of their magic and good old-fashioned manual labor, and settled down against Sorcha, who’d laid down the second clean straw was available to her. Sylphea rested her head on Zargothrax’ chest, both of them letting their flames burn out, cloaking the room in darkness.

“Hey Z?”

“Yes?”

“What that Hesturis guy said… I’m sorry. I know it hurts when people claim you’re a girl.”

Zargothrax sighed. “You know what? It’s weird but I don’t really... mind? I mean if you said it, that would hurt. But he’s an arsehole. He WANTS to hurt me, so I don’t really care.”

“That’s good. I was worried.” He wrapped an arm around her. For a while, they only listened to Sorcha’s steady breaths.

“Why are people so obsessed with us being in love?”

Zargothrax snorted. “I have no idea. Are we?”

“Good Gods, I hope not!” Sylphea poked him in the ribs, evoking a giggle. “Listen, Z, you’re cute, and I like you a lot but… you’re not my type.”

Zargothrax rubbed his ribs, his grin a soft shine in the darkness. “Oh really? What  _ is _ your type then?”

Sylphea sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “Girls, mostly.”

There was a long pause. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” 

“Stop grinning, will you!”

“Just for the record,  _ I  _ was going to ask Jelisia to the Yule ball.”

“Tough luck, because I was going to ask her first! You can go with Gideon.”

They laughed. Sorcha pressed her nose into Sylphea’s shoulder, making her jump. Sylphea awkwardly pet the unicorn’s nose and was awarded with a friendly huff. 

“Do you think there will ever be a Yule ball again?”

“I hope. Lady Moira is still alive. And Ralathor too. Maybe… maybe we can rebuild Auchtermuchty. Or open a school somewhere else. We can’t just let magical education die.”

“You’re one to talk about education. You skipped more classes than you attended.”

Her light-hearted banter was met with surprisingly thoughtful silence. “Probably. But does it matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know what it’s like growing up outside the magical community,” he said quietly. “I had nobody. My mom is a scribe. She can do some basic spells, but… people don’t trust our kind. When I came to Auchtermuchty, suddenly I belonged. Nobody thought I was weird, or made fun of me, or felt threatened by my very existence. I didn’t need to hide anymore.”

“Oh. I never thought about it this way.” Sylphea squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I’m glad you came to Auchtermuchty. Without you, things would have gotten pretty boring I think.” No answer. “Z?”

His breaths had slowed to a steady, calm rhythm, his grip relaxing around her. He was asleep.    
“Boys,” Sylphea sighed. She closed her eyes, brushing a lock of his hair from her face.    
When he woke, he’d surely have a plan.


	19. Tryptichon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three views on the events.   
Also #FuckTheQuestlords

“You said you wanted a plan!”

“A better plan than  _ setting the building on fire _ !”   
Zargothrax glared at her, but his retort was swallowed by the roar of the fire.   
If he’d planned to lure every Questlord in the entire valley to their location, he’d certainly managed.

Sylphea spotted Equestrion’s red hair behind the wall of flames moving rapidly through the far too old and dry structure, already having consumed the rune-inscripted gate. His orders were swallowed in the cacophony, but it wasn’t too hard to guess what he was saying. 

The Questlords were moving in, buckets of water ready to extinguish the flames.

Sylphea coughed, trying to spot an opening. The smoke was making her eyes water.

“Sylph, watch out!” 

Zargothrax dragged her back, the burning wood hitting the ground where she’d been only a second before. The front side of the roof caved under the flames, forcing them to retreat even further against the stone wall.   
The approaching Questlords - many still in in their leisure clothes, considering Zargothrax had woken at the asscrack of dawn to put his plan into motion - vanished behind a flurry of sparks and dust.

“Come, it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Zargothrax swung himself up on Sorcha’s back. She’d refused a saddle, but had at least allowed them to put on a rope as makeshift reigns. Zargothrax motioned Sylphea to follow him. 

“Just because you had a weird dream, doesn’t mean it’s going to work!”

“The last weird dream saved my life. Come on!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her up on the unicorn’s back.

Sylphea did not appreciate being dragged around, and if anything,  _ she  _ should sit in the front, having more or less grown up on horseback-

She screamed and clung to Zargothrax’ robe when the unicorn suddenly dashed forward - and left the ground. The sky opened before them, the uplift bringing the scent of scorched wood and hair, their bodies suddenly weightless, before Sorcha’s hoofs hit the ground and they were galloping forward, past warriors and unicorns that all wore the same expression of wordless shock.

“Fuck you, Equestrion!”, Zargothrax screamed over the roar of the wind. 

Sylphea took the time to extinguish a flame that had caught on his his robes, but didn’t bother mentioning it. Zargothrax flicked his wrist, making the fire leap forward, towards Equestrion. The Questlord was an inch away from being grilled, when a wave flooded the land from the stream, stifling the flames.

Hesturis stepped from the river, the film of water coating him shimmering in the light of the flames as it rearranged itself into the shimmering armour they’d seen before.

They both stared. If Sorcha could have turned, perhaps she’d stared too.    
“Please tell me I’m not the only one who finds this creepy,” Zargothrax said.

“No, this is creepy as hell.”

“Okay good.”

Sylphea cast a wind spell, making the fire pick up in strength, and blew it towards the river. Hesturis raised his arms, summoning another massive wave. Fire and water collided, swallowing the plain in a cloud of hot steam.

“Where are we going?”, Sylphea yelled.

“No idea.” 

“That is not helpful!”

Somewhere behind them, the Questlords were regrouping. Sorcha was fast, but they could feel her strength dwindling, weakened by being imprisoned for so long.    
They would not last in a long-drawn chase.

The ground seemed to shake under the dozens of hoofs that approached behind them, hammering their tune into the very land. “Oh shit!”

The mist opened upon a wide, green plain. Achnasheen was the very picture of a peaceful, untouched landscape, the last threads of steam creating a shimmering rainbow in the warm air. A rainbow that Sorcha’s hoofs touched and ascended.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?”

“I don’t know!”    
Zargothrax cheered as they rose higher and higher, away from Achnasheen and into the sky. They broke the veil surrounding Achnasheen, suddenly flying over a valley that looked no more interesting than a random patch of grass could from up high. Before them stretched the mountains and plains, rivers and forests, tiny so far below them in the clear blue sky. Far away twinkled Loch Ness, flanked by the spires of Inverness and its imposing citadel. 

They were free.

“I thought unicorns being able to fly was a folk tale!”, Sylphea screamed over the wind.

“Me too!” Zargothrax laughed loudly, unable to contain his joy. “I heard they needed a rainbow to start off but that the steam would be enough… I guess we gotta thank Hesturis for his help.”

Sylphea joined his laugher, the relief too much to bear quietly.    
Sorcha dashed across the sky, her hoofs beating the air as if she was on solid ground, leaving behind a faint trail of light.    
They crossed several lakes, and eventually reached Loch Ness, though Sorcha steered clear of Inverness itself. 

After the first wave of relief had worn off, Sylphea kept looking back, expecting someone or something to follow them - if Sorcha could have used the rainbow to leave the ground, other unicorns may have as well, right?    
But no matter how often she checked, there was no posse of knights following them, not on land, water, or air. Eventually, Sorcha slowed, her breathing having gotten quite a lot heavier over time. 

“How do we get down?”, Sylphea yelled. 

“Why do you keep asking me? As if I know anythiiiiii-” 

The dive tore the air from their lungs, Sorcha’s flight suddenly turned into a nearly vertical fall. If not for the improvised reins Zargothrax was holding on to for dear life, they may just have fallen to their death as Sorcha dove for the forest under them.    
As it was, they grazed the treeline by a hair’s breadth and landed in the middle of a clearing, Sorcha easily slowing to a trot, then stopping and kneeling down in the middle of a dense cover of pine needles, where Sylphea and Zargothrax promptly tumbled off and stayed. 

They stared at the sky for a very long time.

“Nobody is going to believe us,” Sylphea panted.

“No.” 

She found his hand and squeezed it.

“This was awesome.”

By the time they’d sat up, brushing pine needles from their hair and recovering some sort of composure, Sorcha was gone.

“Um.”

They looked at each other.

“She does this a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“...And now?”

Zargothrax gave her a crooked smile. “Now we go to Ben Nevis and see what we can do.“

_ Unst, some time in the future _

“What the fuck do you mean they’re not here??”

“It means they are somewhere else.”

“I know they must be somewhere else!”

“Then why do you ask what it means?”

The Hootsman sputtered an answer even he was not sure what it mean, about ready to either chop something (or someone) into bite-sized pieces.

The frail old woman in front of him did seem a little under his standards though.

Fierce and ruthless as he was, letting his frustration out on someone a quarter his size (and about 4 times his age probably) would have been embarrassing at best.

“You must have travelled a long distance,” the old woman rasped. She was bent over a stick made of an entire branch, ornamented with runes and symbols without obvious meaning, her form nearly obscured by a dark green robe and veil. She squinted against the sun to muster Aquilus, who was patiently sitting on the edge of the drawbridge, busy with treating his ruffled feathers to a little brushing. 

The winds had been harsh indeed, the eagle having to fight for every single yard, which had delayed their arrival on Unst by nearly half a day. The Hootsman himself would have preferred a bath or at least a comb before continuing with his quest. 

A quest that seemed done for before it had begun, considering the Muness clan as a whole seemed to have decided to simply abandon their fortress.

Cowards.

“The castle is empty, then?”

“Oh no, I think there’s still some furniture left,” the old woman answered with a curious frown.

The Hootsman took a step back to rub his face and take a few deep breaths.    
Proletius had taught him to do so. Perhaps, if he believed hard enough, it would help.

“Are there any members of the Muness clan - or their kin, friends-” He needed all his willpower not to scream. “Is there a living human left in that castle that I can ask something?”

The old woman smiled. “You should have just said. No, they’re all gone.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not IN the castle, am I?”, she said, gesturing to the drawbridge she was standing on.

That was the last straw.

The Hootsman roared, not even thinking of his battle axe as he swung for the old woman - and hit empty air. 

The force of his strike dragged him forward and to his knees. He staggered back to his feet, spinning around frantically, trying to make out how the old hag could have avoided him. She’d pay for this, and if he had to rip her apart with his bare hands.   
The bridge was empty.

Aquilus looked up from cleaning his wing, giving the Hootsman a quizzical look.

“You shut up!”, the Hootsman snapped, stabbing a finger at the bird, who remained silent, as birds often did. 

The Hootsman stomped into the courtyard, from which several staircases led up to a balcony rounding the entire castle, and whatever rooms lay within. To one side, a wooden horse and puppets told of a training area, and a gate indicated a stable. When he peeked inside, he found nothing but dust that blew in his face and made him sneeze.    
The Hootsman wiped dust off his face and retreated into the courtyard, his next destination the staircase on the far right.    
He’d never been in here, both by his own choice and the enmity with the wretched magic folk. They’d never desired control over the isle, but just by virtue of having magic they’d been worshipped like Gods. Even worse, being “friends” with the goblins living in the cliffs, however they’d managed that, they’d even found the favour of those not foolish enough to fall for their silly tricks.

He’d made it about three fourth to the top before the stairs suddenly disappeared, turning the wooden staircase into a slide. Without anywhere to set his foot, and the slope far too slippery to hold on, the Hootsman landed abruptly on his belly and slid back down, where he came to a grinding halt in a layer of moldy straw. 

“Son of a-”

Looking up, the stairs had once more transformed into a regular old staircase. Unfortunately, his second attempt ended much like the last one, this time with his backside being decorated. Being irritable, but not foolish, the Hootsman decided to climb the structure, which worked surprisingly well. He’d made it to the balcony. 

Only that there was no door any longer. 

Fair enough, there were more of them. He’d break down the wall if need be.

Room one was entirely empty, not even the stone walls covered by anything. It wasn’t very big either, about ten steps across. The Hootsman hesitated, but then stepped into the room, cautiously advancing into the middle. He expected the door to slam behind him, perhaps something to jump out at him, a gust of wind, anything.

Nothing.

It was just an empty room.

Grumbling, the Hootsman turned and marched out the door, about a second later finding himself upright in yet again the same moldy straw. 

Looking up, the door opened upon a ledge, the balcony ending several yards away at another door that he was no sure if it had been there before.

He would need a drink after this.

Many, many drinks.

He got out of the heap, plucking straw from his beard, not without having to sacrifice a few hairs and cursing in a way even the gods would blanch at.

Alright, new plan. 

The gate at the far end of the courtyard led into a great hall - whatever you called great on this tiny little island, anyway. The table was placed, the chairs drawn back, as if the Muness clan had left in haste before dinner could have been served. 

Well, if he was already here he could help himself to a drink, could he not? 

He picked up the nearest cup, inspecting it thoroughly, before downing it in one big gulp.    
Now that was more like it.

The buffet was tempting, but he had a task to fulfill first. Venturing deeper into the castle, he followed corridors hung with portraits of whatever hag had ruled over this dark hole in the years prior. He found an armory, which was nearly empty except a few training swords. 

And technically, he did not find those swords himself, they rather found him, namely when they clattered down on his head he’d foolishly poked into the room. 

He broke them apart, but the minuscule crack of old wood was far from gratifying.

Cursing and grumbling, but with nothing to take his anger out on, the Hootsman went on.

The first real threat came in the shape of a suit of armour. It rattled as it turned in its stand, facing him with a morning star in its hands. In the helmet, there was only gaping emptiness.

The Hootsman groped for his battle axe - to find it gone.

The empty armour struck, the heavy morning star coming down with bone-crushing force. The Hootsman evaded the attack with ease. He pried the weapon from the empty gloves and hammered the useless metal into the ground until nothing but a flat, shining surface remained that crunched under his boots.

He kicked the scraps away, cursing as he tried to get bits of metal from his beard that refused to leave without taking their prisoners down with them.

A giggle echoed between the walls. The sound was right behind him, but as he spun, the corridor was empty. Glaring at nobody in particular, he ventured further, trying to figure out which doors were worth taking a risk for. 

The first door he came upon led into a bedroom. It was a beautiful domain, the walls hung with tapestries that insulated the room nicely even in the harshest winter. A big canopy bed took in the majority of the space, hung with exquisite green curtains of silk. It looked heavenly, big and warm and soft. He was terribly tired, too. The ride had been harsh not only on the eagle.    
Until Aquilus was rested, the Hootsman would go nowhere, so why not take a nap?

Just lie down on the bed a few minutes.

He couldn’t remember crossing the room, but here he was, about to plop down on the soft mattress.

Though it was physically taxing, he turned his back on the so terribly inviting resting spot.

He could nap later, when he was done here.

Further down the hall another giggle - when he found that brat he’d break every bone in its body, that he swore to himself - led him into what looked much like the unofficial meeting room in the royal palace. A fire was burning steadily in the hearth, a pot of tea standing untouched next to a comfy green armchair. Big windows let in the sun, shining over the breastwork surrounding the courtyard. Over the fireplace, the face of a stern-looking woman stared down on him with disparaging blue eyes. 

“Oi, fuck you too, lady,” the Hootsman muttered. It wasn’t hard to guess who she was, even without reading the plaque set into the wall beneath the portrait. Gavina Muness had founded this wretched clan many centuries ago. 

It wouldn’t surprise him if it was her trying to remove him from her clan’s stronghold. Somebody who allegedly made a pact with the fair folk or - depending on who you asked - the spirits of the land to receive unnatural powers may as well last longer than their own life.

A cold wind tore through the room, an icy prick travelling up his legs and stinging him where nothing should be able to sting him. The Hootsman jumped, spitting curses, but once more, the room was empty.

When he turned, the fire had died, not even embers left to show it had burned brightly not long ago.

Instead, his battle axe was lying in front of the fireplace, shining and untouched, as if it had every right to sit there. 

“You have got to be- OW!” The handle scorched his hand when he tried to pick it up, cluttering back to the floor. The Hootsman waved his hand to cool it, already seeing ugly red spots appear on his palm that would develop into blisters soon.   
After waiting a few minutes, he picked it up, this time careful for even the hint of heat in the metal. The axe was as cold as it always was in the winter air. 

The portrait was the first to fall victim to his rage. The axe smashed the frame, tearing it from the wall and onto the fireplace’s mantle. The Hootsman tore the canvas apart strip by strip and stomped it into the stone floor. The major source of enmity gone, he chopped the chair into neat blocks, followed by the table and a dresser that had been hidden by shadows before. Lastly, he used the mantle to sharpen his axe once again, enjoying the shudder the sharp ringing sound of steel sent through his nervous system.

When he was done, the Hootsman leaned on his axe, wiping sweat off his forehead.

The repetitive physical labor had, as always, cleared his mind and left him feeling much better. He left the room and walked down the corridor, opening the next door that greeted him.

Inside was a room much like the unofficial meeting room in the royal palace. A fire was burning steadily in the hearth, a pot of tea standing untouched next to a comfy green armchair. Big windows let in the sun, shining over the breastwork surrounding the courtyard. Over the fireplace, the face of a stern-looking woman stared down on him with disparaging blue eyes.

The Hootsman stared at the room, then looked down the corridor. He jogged back down the corridor and ripped the door open again. The same room. The same portrait. The same fire. All unharmed. 

“What in the-”

He returned to his path, but left the room he’d checked last. The next door, then.

Inside was a room much like the unofficial meeting room in the royal palace. A fire was burning steadily in the hearth, a pot of tea standing untouched next to a comfy green armchair-

He walked on. Another door, to the left this time. 

Inside was a room much like the unofficial meeting room in the royal palace. A fire was burning steadily in the hearth-

This was impossible. The left side faced the river, not the courtyard. 

He sped up, only briefly glancing into each room he passed. They were all the same.

Again, and again, and again.

Eventually, he slowed down. Rushing would not do anything but exhaust him in the long run.

The corridor was the same, too. He’d not immediately noticed in his haste, but the tapestries and portraits he’d passed by bore the same patterns and faces, again and again. 

Next to him was a door. A few yards behind him was the door he’d last opened. And behind that another door. And another.    
The corridor vanished in shadows, but he had no doubt that if he followed it, there would be more doors. And more.

The Hootsman did not fear death. He feared no wound nor battle, did not tremble before even the mightiest enemy. 

But standing in that empty corridor, the Hootsman was worried.

_ A road north of Cowdenbeath _

He’d thought having to walk was bad. With Aquilus gone to Unst, and the necessity to keep a low profile, he knew he’d have to make it by foot, at least some distance. Being dropped off near the south side of the Tay and having to walk from there had not been part of the plan.

His plan, that was.

Prince Angus thought differently.

Ser Proletius leaned heavily on the wooden staff he’d mercifully been granted in replacement for his much more sturdy, well-crafted cane, hobbling forward yet another step. His leg didn’t hurt as much as it had gone entirely numb from the knee down, making walking an interesting experience at best. The ragged cloak he was wrapped in did not much to hold of the chilly wind, and his hands had gone stiff days ago.

But the worst was the glances. He’d drawn his hood deep over his face, in case his unshaven, unwashed face did not conceal his identity sufficiently, limping along without speaking to anyone. As expected people avoided him, purposefully looking the other way, unless they thought he couldn’t see. Then they’d pick up another conversation, muttering amongst themselves, laughing, cracking jokes. The same sort of jokes he’d drilled into his men not to make, for it was a pathetic amusement for a great warrior to make fun of those inferior.    
One time, he’d been nearly ridden down, the rider cursing at him to get out of the way, even kicking in his direction as he rode past. Another time, children had thrown stones at him until he’d given up the idea to find shelter in the town he was passing.

It was humiliating.

He was glad only the royal couple knew where he was. If this got out, he’d be ridiculed throughout the entire country. He’d only informed Morgan that he would be on a reconnaissance mission, but not gone into detail. The knights would continue training as planned, in case Dundee planned to advance upon Edinburgh this winter. 

Proletius took rest on a stone by the path. He was nearly there, so he may as well take a short break. Cowdenbeath, where people rumored mages from all over the country were gathering. Why there, he did not know, but it didn’t matter.

Even if Prince Angus had not ordered him to go, he may have taken the trip voluntarily. He’d seen that wretched quack doctor one last time, only to be told again that another bandage with turmeric would soon heal his leg. The way the doctor had blanched when he’d seen the injury had spoken a different language. 

At this point, his choice was between losing the leg - and more? - or entrusting his life to a mage. 

Proletius was proud, and stubborn to a degree, but he was not a fool. 

A group of three women passed him, chatting lively amongst each other. They fell silent when they saw him, only the shortest smiling at him and waving. Proletius tapped an invisible hat, sliding off the rock to resume his journey.    
The second weight fell upon it, his leg gave out, only the staff saving him from a bad fall.

“Keira! Leave him be, you don’t know what that kind of scoundrel carries!”

Keira did not care. She tentatively grabbed Proletius’ arm and held him until he regained his balance. She was pretty, about thirty years old, with curly brown and blond hair.    
She reminded him of prince Angus somehow.   
It took him a moment to understand why. Instead of the unpredictable anger, her face showed nothing but kindness, but their eyes said the same.

The lights were on, but nobody was home.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” he muttered. 

“Oh, you poor dear, you’re bleeding!”

Was he? Looking down, Proletius saw his tattered pants - which he’d been sold as “the perfect disguise”, and in his opinion should rather be called “guaranteed frostbite” - soaked with blood from the knee down. Oh great.

“Keira, come on!” The blonde woman waved for her companion to return to them, her voice carrying an unmistakable command. Keira looked from her back to Proletius, a battle being fought on her features in slow motion.

“I will be fine. Thank you for your help,” Proletius said.

“Oh! No worries. You really should have someone look at that though. Go to Ailsa. She’s a witch. Not sure if she can heal though.” Keira’s face scrunched up as she thought. “But she’s got an awful amount of guests right now, maybe you’re lucky.”

“KEIRA!”

The woman gave him a last doubtful glance. “Ailsa McKenzie, she lives right at the outskirts of town, you can’t miss it. There’s a large cherry tree in the yard.” She bowed slightly and hurried back to the other two, who squeezed her in between them like a naughty child as they continued their walk, quicker than before.

Ailsa McKenzie, huh?

Like  _ Zargothrax  _ McKenzie?

Now that was interesting. 

He couldn’t do anything about his bleeding leg right now, not here and now, perhaps not ever, so he hobbled on, glad that the pain had finally turned into numbness entirely. It was easier walking like this, and easier not thinking too hard about what was going on in his body. 

Wretched mages.

It took him longer than expected to reach Cowdenbeath, his gait having slowed even more with his unpredictable leg. By the time he reached the outskirts of town, night had fallen, an icy wind tearing through his far too thin clothes.   
The cottage was indeed hard to miss, a cozy little home with a cherry tree in the front yard, the windows ablaze in the darkness. He limped towards the building, going over his cover story once more.    
As he approached the front door, a figure stepped from the shadow of the tree.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rediscovered my love for creepy scottish crawlers. What do you think?


	20. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax and Sylphea are once more back on track for the Blade of Virtue. But unfortunately, getting to it isn't as easy as it seems.  
This chapter is for @TheDarkMetalLady

_ Ben Nevis, the past _

“If an eagle came by and picked me up now, I’d be okay with that,” Sylphea panted.

“I wish I was a goblin. Ari was up here in no time.”

They stopped, both out of breath, and took a few minutes to recover.    
“As if we haven’t done enough walking,” Zargothrax complained. He’d really hoped to find a better way to get up here, after needing far too long to even FIND this place. Turned out Sorcha had set them down in the middle of absolute nowhere, which consisted of lots of trees, lots of mountains and weather he wouldn’t wish upon anyone. They’d luckily not run into patrols or soldiers - in fact, they’d not met any human. They did meet an angry honey badger though that had Sylphea seriously question her aim and put her armour to good use.

Food and water was not a problem, but by the time they reached the mountain, Zargothrax had told of the goblin’s hot springs often enough to have even Sylphea yearn after it. And now they had to get up this thrice-damned staircase. Again.

“Hey Z, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Zargothrax blinked at her, slightly confused. Sylphea usually didn’t start conversations like this. If she had a question, she asked it.

“About Ari. You and her were very close, weren’t you?”

“We are,” he said. “I thought everyone I cared about was dead or far away, and Ari was with me basically all the time. She’s… she’s just great.” He looked away. “I need to save her. No matter what.”

Sylphea gently touched his hand. “We can’t alter the timeline.”

“I don’t  _ care _ .”

He confronted her gaze, the pity in her eyes only fueling the fire in his. “I  _ won’t  _ let her die. And if I have to personally kill Proletius here and now, I  _ will _ save her.”

Sylphea took his hand. She knew better than to debate him on something she knew she could not change. “Then let’s get going.”

Ironically, they reached the top of the mountain only a few steps later. To Zargothrax’ surprise though, the entrance was closed by a stone wall.

“Um. This was not here before,” he stated unnecessarily.

Sylphea inspected the stone. It was smooth and polished, only a single rune cut into the flat surface. The clouds surrounding them dissipated just enough to let in the last rays of the winter sun, making the stone shine like a mirror.

“Looks like we need either a key or a password.”

“Uh-huh.” Zargothrax frowned at the rune. It reminded him of something, but he could not for the life of him remember where he knew it from. “I mean, Proletius got in here before I did, so he must have found a way to open it. I think the star lords built this place to have everyone have the same chances, whether they have magic or not.”

Sylphea nodded, trying to pry the door open, but not even finding a slit to put her fingers. It was sealed, tighter than any material a mortal could craft. She stepped back, playing her hands on her hips with a huff. 

“Perhaps this is part of the trials?”

“Proletius said there were no trials.”

Sylphea rolled her eyes. “Z, I hate to break it to you but… people lie, sometimes. Especially those that kill prisoners that are no threat.”

He gave her a look that made her regret being so harsh. “Sorry. I just meant, if that guy told me his name and I didn’t already know it, I probably wouldn’t believe him. ...What?”

Zargothrax stared at her, something just on the verge of realization dawning on his face.

“Say that again.”

“I wouldn’t believe his name if I didn’t already know it?”

“NAMES!”

Sylphea flinched so hard she almost tumbled down the staircase backwards.    
Zargothrax was nearly bouncing on the spot in excitement. “Of course! I knew I’d seen the rune before! It’s goblin language, something like >introduce yourself<.”

“...You speak goblin?”

He shrugged. “Not really, their language is more complex than any spell I’ve ever learned. But I know some basics.” He frowned at the rune, then looked up into the mist above them.    
“Um, hello, mysterious power keeping this mountain shut. My name’s Z… um, Zargothrax McKenzie, that’s my friend Sylphea Muness. We’re… we’re here to get the Blade of Virtue. You know, to help people. Otherwise Proletius gets it, and he’s not good people. He used it to kill my friend, back in the future.” He broke off, unsure what else to argue with.

They both looked at the door for a very long time. 

“I don’t think that worked,” Sylphea said. 

Zargothrax rubbed his forehead. “Oh Gods, don’t tell me I have to do this in goblin…”    
He cleared his throat, and hesitated.

Then he uttered a sequence of syllables Sylphea didn’t realize humans  _ could _ utter. She heard their names, somewhere in a sentence whose structure she could not decipher. 

Once more, they looked at the door. 

“Are you absolutely sure, that’s what the rune mea-”    
The rune burst out in blinding light, liquid blue fire racing through the surface and devouring the door. Within a few seconds, not even the smell of smoke reminded them that there had ever been an obstacle.

“I can’t say I expected that,” Sylphea admitted. “...wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, McKenzie, this is just the first step of many.”

Zargothrax merely shrugged, smirking all the wider, and ventured into the cavern. Once more, the ancient magic enveloped him, far stronger than the last time he’d been here. 

Three steps and one conveniently placed stone later he was facedown on the floor.

Sylphea caught up to him, her magical light casting a soft green glow. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. But my dignity isn’t.”

Sylphea helped him up, not able to stifle her laughter. “You should be used to that.”

Zargothrax grumbled to himself, brushing dust and stones off the front of his robe and summoned his own light, blending with hers. 

Last time, Ari had led the way, sniffing out traps for him that he had no chance of finding. Now it was him leading Sylphea, trying his best to remember which steps to avoid and which to take. They’d rounded the third corner, when their light fell upon something blocking the path. It looked vaguely humanoid, like a person sitting curled up in grief on a large stone, their back turned towards them. At first glance it may have been a stone statue, but the surface shimmered strangely, not unlike living tissue.

“Um. I don’t remember that being here.”    
Zargothrax looked back, wondering if perhaps they’d taken a wrong turn.

Sylphea stepped in front of him, drawing her sword. “Pardon my Unstian, but this fucker is bad news if you ask me.”

“Generally, yes, but I wonder what it do-AAAAH!”

Sylphea tackled him to the ground, a split second before the creature’s fist hit the wall where he’d just been.

They scrambled to their feet, swords and spells ready - and froze.

“What the fuck is that,” Sylphea whispered. 

The beast uncurling itself before them had little right to exist, let alone exist in the proximity of humans. The entire figure seemed to be made of nothing but raw flesh, not covered by skin or fur. Something like the head of a horse turned towards them, its single eye observing them with an evil intelligence, the mouth too wide, split open like the muzzle of a grinning dog.

On its back rose what could have been the shape of a human, though its arms were grotesquely long, with hands bigger than the horse’s head, and it seemed fused with the mount’s back. Empty eye sockets stared at them, before it dropped its jaw and screamed.

They were out of the cavern before the beast had time to take another breath.

Only a hovering spell prevented them from falling down the stairs head-first when they reached the ledge sooner than expected.

It would have been a long fall.    
Sylphea dove behind a large boulder to the side, dragging Zargothrax after her. Then they lay still and listened, hands pressed to each other’s mouth to prevent any sound from escaping. They heard steps, the sound of something wet and squishy being pressed against the stone floor, and awet huff as the creature sniffed the air.

The stench was so overwhelming it made them gag.    
Nothing dead or undead smelled like this.    
An entire cemetery wouldn’t smell like this.

They scarcely dared to breathe, only they eyes being locked to each other, sharing the horror the very sight of this beast had struck in their hearts.

Eventually, the steps faded away, and the stench with it.

Still, they did not move, until a considerable amount of time had passed in silence. Then they sat up, still behind the rock, and just breathed.

„You’re hurt.“

Sylphea blinked at him, her brain just now catching up to physical input again. A gash was just done forming the first drop of blood to trickle from her jawline.

„Let me.“ Zargothrax touched her cheek with his fingertips and sealed the wound, though he did not make it vanish entirely. As great as magical healing was, it left scars much more often than if the body was just left to its own devices.

Sylphea smiled, cupping his hand in hers for a moment. „Thank you.“

He nodded and leaned back.

“We’re never getting to the blade,” he stated. He took off his glasses to rub his face, still ashen after the terrifying encounter. “How the hell did Proletius go PAST that thing?”

“Maybe he didn’t,” Sylphea said.

“Then how did he get the blade?”

Sylphea shook her head, tracing her sword‘s blade as if doing so calmed her. „You said when you arrived, the gate was already opened, right?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know there WAS a gate.”

“Exactly. I really doubt Proletius speaks goblin - he doesn’t seem like the type to mingle with anything but humans and eagles.  _ And _ you said he’s injured. Knight of Crail or not, he can’t win against whatever that thing is, not if he’s already weakened. Perhaps not at all.” 

He squinted at her. “...I’m following, but I’m not sure where to.”

Sylphea frowned down at her hands, then looked up into the mist. “What if, by us being here, we’re already keeping the timeline intact?”

“You mean, when he said there were no trials-”

“It was the truth. Because we already completed them. We opened the gate. And somehow, we must have gotten past that thing, so neither he nor you noticed it.”

They fell silent as something roared within the mountain, the sound of a ravenous beast mixed with a chorus of human souls that were being burned alive.

“...I’m not going in there again,” Zargothrax said. He had gone even paler, something that should not have been possible. His hands shook as he shoved his glasses into his hair. “I don’t care about the timeline. Proletius can deal with that.” He shuddered, wrapping himself tighter into his cloak. 

Sylphea was inclined to agree. She would rather have single-handedly fought every single knight of Crail than face that thing again. But it didn’t seem like they had a choice.   
“Perhaps that’s the reason Ralathor gave you that blade,” Sylphea tried to continue her previous thought. She pointed at the dagger that had sat in his belt, unused, ever since he’d stumbled over the school’s courtyard and into the dining hall, bleeding and disoriented.    
“He knew that thing was awaiting us, so he gave you a weapon to slay it.”

Zargothrax stared down at the dagger. “Ralathor believed I could be his hero.” He shook his head, smiling bitterly. “I couldn’t even kill the Hootsman when he was lying motionless in front of me. There’s no way I could slay some, some fleshy demon horse thing that will probably rip me apart with its bare hands if it sees me.”

That didn’t make him any worse a person, a hero no less, as far as Sylphea was concerned. She doubted an entire army would be able to slay that thing.

An eagle’s cry echoed over the mountain. They ducked, Sylphea quickly creating a veil that had them blend into the surroundings.    
To their horror, the sound of wings beating the air was coming closer. 

The eagle stirred up a cloud of dust and not few fist-sized rocks, tearing at the stone and the hidden onlookers as it landed before the entrance. A knight of Crail jumped off its back, taking off his helmet to look around a bit closer. It wasn’t Proletius, though he did seem somewhat familiar to Zargothrax. 

The knight put down his helmet on a stone near the entrance and drew his sword. He carefully poked his head into the cavern, waiting. When nothing happened, he shrugged and turned back to the eagle.

“Wait here, Farcry. I’ll just go and see if there’s good spots for standing guard inside.”

He pet the huge bird, who blinked indifferently and began to plume its feathers.

The knight ventured into the cavern, about three seconds later noisily tripping over the same stone Zargothrax had fallen victim to before.

Sylphea covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Some curses and the clattering of armour later, his steps faded away.

“So, should we go aft-mpfh.” 

Zargothrax held her mouth shut, ignoring her struggling.

“The eagle!”, he mouthed. Sylphea held still. 

Together, they peered over the rock.

Indeed, the eagle - called Farcry apparently - had raised its head, looking around warily. Zargothrax tried to turn the veil into full invisibility, but since it was not his own spell, doing so would destabilize it, so he gave up and prayed Sylphea’s veils worked better than his own.

Whether or not the eagle saw them, he didn’t have time to come for them, for in that moment, the sound of heavy footsteps came up the corridor at a rapid pace, accompanied by a voice nearly unrecognizable to be the same knight.

“Farcry! Farcry, liftoff, immediately! Holy mother of Gods, what the fu-”

The knight threw himself on the eagle’s back without bothering to pick up his helmet, the eagle throwing himself into the sky at once, feathers flying everywhere.

The hellish beast came to a sliding halt at the edge of the staircase, its fleshy feet producing a disgusting wet sound. It stood there, huffing and spreading its sickening stench, before it turned and trotted back inside with a growl that sounded nearly like laughter.

Once more, they sat still until the stench and steps had faded. 

“...I thought this would be more satisfying to see,” Zargothrax admitted with a half-hearted laugh.

“Can’t blame him, honestly. No sane man would face this thing.”

Zargothrax sighed and dropped his head back against the stone. “And yet somehow, we must.” For a moment, his brain thought it a good idea to have him imagine if the hellbeast suddenly appeared here, peering over the rock with its too wide mouth and single burning eye.   
If that happened, his soul would just instantly depart him, probably through his bowels.

He shuddered and concentrated back on Sylphea, who was staring ahead with the most terrifying expression a person of her size could make. 

“This is bullshit!”, she hissed. “Nuckelavee’s aren’t mountain creatures. We’re too far inland for it to come here.”

Zargothrax blinked at her. “THAT’S a Nuckelavee?” 

His mother had told him stories of it, once when he’d insisted on going into the woods as a child to practise his newfound talent of making leaves float all by themselves.    
He’d never gone alone again.

But even that tale, though it had terrified him until late in his teens, could not match reality.

“If that- If THAT really is a Nuckelavee, there is no  _ way  _ we are getting to the blade.”

“I know!” Sylphea hammered her fist onto her armoured lap. “But it can’t be! Why would a literal demon protect the Blade of Virtue?”

He frowned. On second thought, it really did seem strange.   
“You mean it’s an illusion?”

If she could have without leaving their temporary safe haven, Sylphea would have paced up and down. Anything to let out the frustration raging through her. “Yes. Things just don’t match up. I grew up with stories about the Nuckelavee. People say my great uncle once narrowly escaped it. But I’ve never heard of it down here, on the mainland. And not this far inland. But if I’m wrong…”

“we’re going to die if we face it,” Zargothrax finished. 

They sat in silence for a while. Inside, they thought to hear the wet scraping of the beast’s enormous hands on the floor. 

Zargothrax looked down at his dagger, the dagger Ralathor had risked his life to give him. The handle shimmered softly in the muted sunlight seeping through the clouds, changing color with the tiniest movement. 

“Do you trust Ralathor?”, Sylphea asked. 

Zargothrax thought about it for a long time. “I trust that he knows a lot more than us, and that he wouldn’t take this risk if he didn’t believe it was worth it.” 

“I see.” Sylphea took his hand and squeezed. He squeezed back. 

“Ready when you are.”

_ Cowdenbeath, the future _

Ser Proletius squinted at the figure. According to his research, whatever mage lived in this town was not powerful enough to have made an appearance on their lists, not even the “not dangerous, but good to know” section.

The woman was about his height, with dark hair and eyes that regarded him steadily. She looked to be about forty years old, her form neither cloaked nor accentuated by her dark red dress. 

“Keira told me she’d send me a man in need,” the woman continued. She smiled.

“Are you the witch she spoke of?”, Proletius asked cautiously.

“Indeed I am. My name is Ailsa McKenzie. And yours, traveller?”

“...Stewart. Rory Stewart.”

The woman nodded. “Very well, Master Stewart. I see that you are indeed in need of treatment, and it is not custom in my house to turn away the suffering. Come in and I will see how I can help.”

She walked to the front door and held it open for him.    
Proletius limped into the house, nodding to her. Inside, it was warm, the sudden change sending a tickle through his frozen hands and coloring them like strawberries in spring.    
At a small table in the kitchen sat a man with long, curly hair. For a second, Proletius froze, thinking it was the sorcerer, but when the man looked up, his face was much different, older and more slim, without the scars the young sorcerer had borne.

“Finlay, this is the man Keira spoke about. His name is Rory Stewart. Please make him a tea while I see to his injuries.”

She led Proletius into another room, where she told him to sit down on a chair and wait a moment while she collected all she needed.    
The room was inconspicuous. There was a window facing the outside, now dark, a bed that had been covered as it had not been in use for a while, a shelf with some books - rare enough out here in the countryside. An even rarer sight was that they seemed to deal with various topics of magic. In between, he spotted an anthology of short stories and some history books.   
The biggest volume, resting horizontally on the other tomes, was the history of Crail, once written by Grand Master Diarmid Pitridar himself.

Now that was curious.

Ailsa returned soon, but she was not alone. An elderly woman was by her side, her white hair bound back and covered by a green veil. She leaned on a staff carved from a branch, embellished with symbols that glowed softly as she walked.

“My Gods, that does look bad, you were not kidding,” the old woman said. She spoke the very same dialect as the Hootsman, though even heavier, drawing the words out in a way that Proletius could barely follow. 

The woman mustered him. “I’ll take a look at it.”    
She turned and left the room.

Proletius thought it better not to comment.

Ailsa began unpacking a box with tools, bandages and salves on the table near the door. Proletius was less than enthused to see a large saw among them. It made his stomach feel funny, in a way no aerial maneuver ever had.

He jumped when the door slammed open again and the old woman marched in.

“You should have come here much much earlier,” she scolded. “This will be a buttload of work, not just one day, young man.”

“....I’m sorry.” 

Ailsa chuckled to herself. “Shonag, I’m certain the >young man< tried everything in his power before coming here. Not everyone trusts sorcerers the way your people do.”

“Well they shouldn’t!,” the old woman proclaimed. “Sorcerers are a treacherous bunch.”    
He knew the woman from somewhere. Had he seen her before? If she originated from Unst, then-

“How did this even happen?”, Shonag Muness asked, peering at him with her pale eyes. 

“I’ve not seen a flesh-eating spell in at least a decade, and never one that works so slowly.”

“A flesh-eating spell?”, he repeated, all color draining from his face.    
He’d known it was bad, but-

“Aye,” Shonag said gravely. “They’ve been outlawed. I think only the folks at Auchtermuchty are mucking around with that still, for research purposes.” She wrinkled her nose. 

“I… I was in Auchtermuchty. When… when it happened.”

Ailsa froze, still in the middle of sorting her utensils. Her back straightened, tense like an eagle ready to leap, but did not turn.

“What was it like?”

“It was… chaotic,” he answered, hesitating. “There was smoke everywhere. I tried to find my way out of the city, when something grazed my leg. I… fell. Perhaps that saved my life.” 

Shonag mustered him, her gaze so sharp it made him wonder if his story was not as solid as he’d thought it was. 

“The lad needs a bath,” Shonag said. “Before that, there’s no point in trying anything. The healing will take time, he may as well spend it clean.”

Ailsa nodded. “I’ll bring him there.”

“Good. Now hold still, young man, I need to stall the spell before we get to work tomorrow.”

“Can’t you reverse it now?”

The old woman glared at him. “I’m old and it’s late. You can be glad you made it here in time at all. In a day or two, your leg would have fallen apart under you. I will stall the spell, and tomorrow we get to work.”

He muttered a vague affirmation, already going over how he’d hide the insignia of Crail, cut into his chest long ago, if he was to bathe here. Once they figured out who he was their well-meaning help could as well become his death sentence.

Shonag brusquely shoved up his pant leg. Proletius didn’t see the magic that flowed into his leg, nor the finer details of his black, blood-stained skin.   
The soft trickle of magic raced through his nervous system like a lightning bolt, and the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nuckelavee is by far the scariest Scottish critter I could think of. If you want nightmares, go look up some artistic renditions, because Silent Hill got NOTHING on this fucker.   
The eagle Farcry is property of DarkMetalLady. 
> 
> Also, why do I like Proletius so much. Fml.


End file.
